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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22653532">flecks of gold</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/CosmicTurnabout/pseuds/CosmicTurnabout'>CosmicTurnabout</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Final Fantasy XIV</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Blood and Violence, Character Study, Discussion of Abortion, Dubious Consent, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gen, Horror, Introspection, Patch 5.0: Shadowbringers Spoilers, Patch 5.3: Reflections in Crystal Spoilers, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Content, Slight Canon Divergence, Trauma, cosmic horror, domestic abuse</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 14:27:36</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>47,839</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22653532</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/CosmicTurnabout/pseuds/CosmicTurnabout</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Snatches of Emet-Selch’s life as Solus zos Galvus, like bubbles in time. A character study of the man as soldier, husband, father, and leader, and how he interacted with those close to him. </p><p>Even in the sunniest weather, the days are dark, and the nights darker. The golden veneer flakes away with the years, exposing corrupted innards, smoking and twisted. And those innards in turn corrupt everything they touch. </p><p>Rating subject to change in future chapters.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>42</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>74</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. brown</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Again.”</p><p>The voice of the master-at-arms cut through the chill morning air, and Emet-Selch stepped forward. His opponent looked at him warily from across the courtyard, on the other side of the hasty circle Master Aquila had carved into the dirt earlier with the edge of his blade. It was a messy little practice ground, but it always served well for their purposes.</p><p>Emet-Selch lunged, his wooden blade darting out, an extension of his arm, and found the other man’s blade, just barely brought up in time to catch it. In truth, the “blades” were wooden lathes bundled together, meant to teach balance and control, not to cut. His opponent, Jovian, staggered back a step, seemingly stunned by the force of his attack. Emet-Selch took advantage of the momentary hesitation to spring and lash, scoring a touch on his side. He was not nearly as rough as he’d been the first time he had marked the fellow, but Jovian still huffed in agitation as he walked back to his place on the other side of the courtyard. It had taken Emet-Selch several minutes to touch Jovian that first bout; this round had lasted mere seconds.</p><p>“Very good, m’lord,” said Master Aquila. “That’s two touches to you, none to Lord Jovian.”</p><p>“Yes, thank you, Aquila.”</p><p>The master-at-arms gave a curt nod while Jovian spat, one hand adjusting the leather gauntlets tucked behind his sword belt. Both Jovian and Emet-Selch were shirtless despite the cold; it did not take long to work up a sweat on the practice grounds, even with Ilsabard’s merciless climate. Emet-Selch barely felt it; rather, he found the cold invigorating. Smiling, he spun the sword lazily in his hand. It was a wooden practice blade he held now, but one day, when his plans came to fruition, he would commission a great ceremonial sword, with jewel-encrusted pommel and hilt and the Galvus family sigil engraved in the fuller. Perhaps also a symbol of the mask he had worn as an Amaurotine, if he were feeling cheeky enough. The irony was that he would never use a sword if he did not have to—not in battle, at least. This was all for show, to demonstrate to these mortals and to himself that he could wield their weapons and master them with little effort. And to deflect suspicion and stave off boredom, of course. When he truly needed to kill, he had a far more deadly and efficient method at hand.</p><p>His opponent came at him again. Jovian was heavyset, broad in the shoulders and across the chest, with a chin like a stone slab and two thin scars making a cross on one cheek. For all that, he was moving much faster than he had before. Emet-Selch was surprised at how little time he had to react, and he tapped into Solus Galvus’s memories to dodge accordingly. The man had sparred against Jovian long before Emet-Selch had taken him as his vessel, and knew his techniques well. Missing the first slash, Jovian’s practice blade clattered against Emet-Selch’s, which he jerked up just in time to block a backhand swing. For a moment they pushed against each other, cross-guards caught at an angle; Jovian’s face a mask of rage, Emet-Selch’s coolly composed. They were so close that he could see the bruise he had given Jovian in the first round, large and purple on one bulging arm. The practice swords could not break skin, but they could leave welts and marks that endured for days afterward.</p><p>For a split second Emet-Selch thought the big man was going to spit in his eye. He looked angry enough for it. <em>I’d like to kill this lout</em>, came his fleeting thought. <em>I could do it, right now. Wrap him in Fire aether and watch him burn like an insect</em>. He could see it so clearly, the man crisping into a blackened lump of char in a matter of seconds. But he could not do it. Jovian was also from a noble family, albeit one that paid tribute to House Galvus. He did not have Solus’s looks, or his charisma, or his tactical prowess, for all his burly physique and hot-blooded ardor. And of course, he was less than nothing compared to Emet-Selch. But even so... he had his uses.</p><p>
  <em>It would be a waste to kill him, and you know it. He is a good sparring partner, and an excellent soldier. He is worth leaving alive for that alone.</em>
</p><p>Both men’s energy seemed to give out at the same time, and they leapt back, dirt spraying from beneath their heels as they skidded to a stop. Emet-Selch had used Wind to soften his landing somewhat, not that Jovian or Master Aquila could tell. As soon as his boots touched ground he was running at Jovian again, lifting his sword up for a downward swipe before the other man had regained his footing.</p><p>
  <em>I won’t kill him, no. But I will hammer it into his skull that I am the better swordsman.</em>
</p><p>Emet-Selch was a mere yalm or two away when suddenly a voice surged up out of his mind, echoing behind his eyes. <em>My legs are moving on their own. Why? Why?!</em></p><p>He almost tripped. <em>I thought I had beaten him back for today</em>. He grimaced at the thought, at the small knot in the back of his head that contained the last vestiges of Solus’s inner self. Ever since he’d taken this body—a year almost to the day, he surmised—he’d bludgeoned Solus’s will until his essence had retreated to a corner of his own mind, as a kicked dog cowering from an angry master. Emet-Selch found it pitiful, almost; a nobleman so well-regarded by his peers—and a skilled soldier besides—giving in so easily? It beggared belief. But every once in a while Solus’s voice resurfaced, weak and thin, to give protest. Sometimes he spoke as if he had forgotten what had happened to him, possession and all. Today was one of those days, it seemed.</p><p><em>Be quiet, fool</em>, Emet-Selch thought at the voice, slashing down at Jovian’s head; blessedly, it clammed up. His opponent had just now recovered, but he did not have time to block the blow, only dodge. He twitched out of the way at the last second, taking the swing meant for his head on his left shoulder. Jovian winced as the wooden blade connected, blunt and hard, and Emet-Selch smiled, droplets of sweat flying into the air as the force of the blow sent a strong jolt back up his arm. Jovian met his gaze, expression pained but with half a grin pulling his lips up. The man was made of mythril, tough for a mortal. Had he really wanted to destroy him only moments ago? Oh, how the mind could change. He had been a good sport, even when rather easily beaten.</p><p><em>We used to fight so often.</em> Solus’s voice drifting up again, slow and indignant. <em>We never saw eye-to-eye. He hated when I bested him. Even when he smiled afterward.</em></p><p>“Three touches!” came Master Aquila’s gruff voice from the edge of the circle. “Good show, m’lord.”</p><p>Emet-Selch grunted acknowledgement, waving Aquila over to collect his things on the other side of the practice ground. Before turning back to follow, though, he paused; something had him reaching down to help the other man up. He was through with practice for one day, but Solus’s intrusion, along with Jovian’s performance, had planted a seed in his mind; perhaps he could set the machine in motion sooner than he had anticipated. Jovian frowned at the proffered hand for half a heartbeat, then seemed to reconsider before grabbing Emet-Selch’s forearm and rocking to his feet.</p><p>It occurred to Emet-Selch that Jovian could have protested—rightfully so—about the force with which he had swung the practice blade at him, today or at any of their dozens of previous bouts; his family may have paid regular tribute to Galvus, but that did not in itself give him the right to attack so aggressively. Even he could admit that.</p><p>
  <em>That shows restraint. Deference. Something I need in an underling.</em>
</p><p>“Jovian,” Emet-Selch said, mouth tight. Their forearms were still clasped; the other man was a great deal more muscled than he. “I know you don’t like me. You never have.” A quick glance through Solus’s memories made that readily apparent. “But with just a word from me, you could be a great tutor of the sword. A master-at-arms, even.” That last he said quietly, so as not to unduly discomfit Aquila in case he was within earshot. “You are a fine fighter, and wise enough to put aside injured pride for the greater good and commensurate reward, I imagine. What do you say to training my levies?”</p><p>Most of the smallfolk on the estates surrounding the Galvus manor were farmers and miners scratching out livings on what scarce bountiful land there was in northern Ilsabard. They were more used to hefting a scythe or pickaxe than a real weapon, and some could operate and repair labor machina. Emet-Selch could certainly use them as they were, but he would prefer them trained first if at all possible. Drawing from men already sworn to him, he could raise his own army, starting small—and if he started small, built slowly, neighboring provinces would not see the threat until it was too late.</p><p>Jovian’s eyes lit up like fired coals in his square face. He gave Emet-Selch’s arm a shake, then said, “It-it’d be an honor, Lord Solus.” Jovian was rough in appearance and manners, but he knew a good deal when presented with one. <em>And just like that, I have smoothed out the feud simmering between these two for more than a decade</em>. Solus had truly had no idea how to leverage the resources at his disposal for anything but immediate and limited personal gain.</p><p>They stood there for a few moments more, fleshing out the logistics of the plan, talking over who would make good assistant tutors, and how many chocobos they would need for mounted practice. Emet-Selch was satisfied with Jovian’s knowledge. At first Jovian sounded a touch skeptical at his lord’s unusual friendliness, but quickly fell into line; he was no schemer. He did not question his liege lord’s sudden interest in raising levies either—there had been raids along the border for months now, and every landed noble was concerned for the stability of their holdings. It only made sense to shore up defenses, to have men ready to fight for their lords’ land if it came to that. <em>As long as they do not think too terribly hard about where those “raiders” are coming from.</em></p><p>“Your effects, m’lord,” came Aquila’s gruff voice from a bench near the stable fronting the practice grounds. He had placed Emet-Selch’s things on the bench in a neat pile.</p><p>“Good man,” said Emet-Selch. “You may retire, Aquila. Get yourself something warm to drink.” The master-at-arms sketched a bow and set off stiff-necked, severe as always. Emet-Selch watched him go, then looked back to his new underling—his first lieutenant, in truth, though Jovian could hardly know it—and nodded, releasing his grasp. “I take it we have an understanding, then.” He essayed a friendly smile at the hulking soldier. Jovian jerked his head in assent, jaw clenched; still, he looked pleased, a good deal more than when he’d arrived at the practice grounds that morning.</p><p>“I will see to preliminary preparations tomorrow,” he said in parting, and waved over his shoulder. In spite of himself, Emet-Selch gave a jaunty wave back, smiling wickedly. He was in high spirits.</p><p>Alone for the nonce, Emet-Selch strode over to collect the things Aquila had stacked on the bench. A lash of wind stirred his hair, cooling the sweat still clinging to his chest. It was cold, typical for northern Ilsabard, but the chill air felt good after the ferocity of the practice matches. Sifting through the pile, he selected a linen shirt and pulled it on, then picked up Solus’s red military coat. For the first in a long time, he allowed himself to linger on the thread-of-gold circling the black-banded cuffs, the glinting silver buttons big as coins, the badges sewn into the breast. These last were tokens of the many battles Solus had won for Garlemald, most of them minor border skirmishes and scouting expeditions undertaken before Emet-Selch had made him his vessel. They were trivial on the whole, but the point was that Solus Galvus had never lost a fight, not once, and this marked him as one of the most talented and influential of the up-and-coming young Garlean nobles. It was the main reason Emet-Selch had singled him out, though he had set his sights far higher than trifling excursions and border defense. He would have new badges sewn on, and soon.</p><p>He pulled the heavy coat over his shoulders, and as he did movement at the corner of his eye stirred him to attention.</p><p>There was a young woman looking at him from near the stables, a slip of a thing with straight yellow hair falling down her back. She was perhaps two or three years younger than he, blue eyes wide and wavering in her long face. He’d seen her here before, and elsewhere around the manor grounds. He had never paid her much mind, though Emet-Selch was well aware of the effect this face and body had on women of an age with him. The girl was hardly what he would call beautiful, and yet she watched him longingly, almost desperately. Like she could have him. That grated for some reason—as if she deserved his attentions!—but today he felt strangely ebullient. He plucked up his practice sword, spun on his heel, and twirled the blade so it carved a ribbon into the air. Then, flashing a quick smile at her, he caught the sword fast by the hilt, stopping it dead before it could so much as quiver. She burst into laughter and clapped delightedly, and he graced her with a small bow. At that she blushed shyly, her hands dropping to her sides. You never knew who might come in useful down the road. As with Jovian.</p><p><em>Augusta</em>, came an anguished moan from the back of his skull.</p><p><em>You know this girl, then</em>? Emet-Selch asked, setting the sword down so he could tug his gloves on. <em>A bit plain for you, Solus</em>. He laughed softly, low enough his admirer could not hear, then picked up the practice sword and began to walk toward her. The man’s sniveling annoyed him, but it was amusing to prod at his insecurities. The girl’s eyes never left his. </p><p>The voice in his head gave a low whine. <em>Don’t hurt her</em>, it pleaded. <em>She’s no one, she’ll not get in your way</em>.</p><p><em>Mayhap I will ignore her</em>, he said. But he did so love tooling with the idiot. <em>Or perhaps I’ll bed her, if it pleases me. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?</em></p><p>Solus moaned. <em>Don’t hurt her</em>, he said again. It was hard to remember he had been a proud, haughty man once.</p><p>
  <em>Did I say anything about hurting her? What is she to you?</em>
</p><p>Solus did not answer, only retreated further into himself. Vaguely intrigued, Emet-Selch searched through Solus’s memories of the girl. Images flickered like a candle. Augusta falling in the mud as a child, Solus unable to help as his family passed her by. Solus seeing her in the market as she collected food for the week, poring over imported fruit on a beaten brass tray. Augusta watching as he graduated from tilting at wooden targets to practicing on chocoback, against live opponents with glittering steel spears. Neither ever saying a word or deliberately approaching the other. Augusta, always on the edge of his life, and he, stupidly enamored of the first girl he could remember laying eyes on. Emet-Selch supposed the affection had only grown after he had nearly destroyed the lordling's ego a year or so ago, his thoughts and feelings addled in the takeover.</p><p>Most importantly, though, she was the daughter of Jovian’s head clerk, and from what little he knew, Jovian’s family was rich. <em>Richer than ours, though less prestigious</em>. He rifled through Solus’s memories to see what else he could discover. It seemed they had made their fortune from a mineral concern Augusta’s grandfather, their first head clerk, had set up decades ago. The concern had specialized in locating and harvesting ceruleum deposits, of all things. Ceruleum, the propulsive element in Garlemald’s labor machina.</p><p>Fascinating. Very fascinating. And all this in the few steps it took to close the distance between him and the girl.</p><p>Augusta looked up at him expectantly; he fair towered over her. Her eyes seemed to shiver as she took him in, elfin nose flaring in the cold, even white teeth showing between cracked lips. Emet-Selch supposed she was pretty, in the way an unkept patch of wildflowers could be pretty. A memory of Amaurot skirted unbidden through his mind. Everyone and everything had been beautiful there, undeniably so. He suppressed a sneer, turning his sudden grief toward a wolf’s smile. She wobbled at the sight of it, as if she hardly dared believe he would grace her with any sort of attention.</p><p>Another idea tickled. He had been expecting to wait much longer to truly set his grand plan in motion, but now...</p><p>Emet-Selch hadn’t been certain sure at first, but it was beginning to look like Solus really was the ideal vessel. Physically imposing, a decorated soldier, nobly born with a web of connections at his fingertips. Three ingredients that could be mixed to turn the tide of the country, reshape it in his image.</p><p>“Augusta,” Emet-Selch said, fastening the sword to his belt. He had made his voice as silky as he could manage. “How felicitous to find you here. I’ve a question for you, my dear. If you don’t mind.” Her knees nearly gave way beneath her, and he reached out, caught her hand to hold her steady.</p><p>“My l-lord Solus?” she whispered. She looked like she might cry. <em>Could this be the first they’ve spoken in earnest?</em> Emet-Selch wondered. He had no idea.</p><p>“I was hoping you would be kind enough to introduce me to your lord father,” Emet-Selch said. “As I understand it, he is head clerk for Jovian’s estate. I’ve been meaning to find a new head clerk myself now that Janus is getting on in years, and...”</p><p>Augusta’s expression shifted from shock to contented amazement as she took his offered arm and walked with him toward the manor. He continued to make pleasant sounds at her, not really listening to what he was saying, all the while slowly working around to the real reason he had approached her. Access to Jovian’s fortune. Riches. Resources. They would be his within a year, maybe less.</p><p>She beamed at him as he talked, oblivious as a lamb. Her skin was blotchy and chafed from the wind, and a small scar on her lip pulled an already overwide smile into something approaching a mummer’s mask. He wondered vaguely how she’d been marked. Had she hurt herself, the scar a result of some Ilsabardian chirurgeon’s primitive attempt at surgery? Had a jilted suitor hit her in his cups? Had her father? In any case, who would waste time laying hands on such a pitiful thing? Abruptly, he was angry with himself for showing even that much interest in the chittering girl.</p><p><em>She is no beauty fit for a lord, </em>he thought. <em>But she will amuse me for a time</em>. <em>And then I will be rid of her.</em></p><p>Somewhere in the back of his mind, Solus was whimpering.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. red</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Emet-Selch stared at the map on the wall. It was wide enough to nearly cover the space between his two well-stocked bookshelves, and unlike the large vellum map draped over the table in the audience chamber, only he marked this one. Early evening light spilled in from the nearby window between curtains half-pushed back; just enough light to read and plan by. On that map were circles marking possible future engagements, neat notes with the estimated numbers of potentially hostile forces written in gaps between mountains and rivers. Most significantly, there were red pins denoting noble houses who had already joined him, and yellow pins denoting noble houses who had not yet made their allegiance known. But they would, in time. Or he would make the decision for them.</p><p>The room had once been a private study for Solus Galvus’s father, but Emet-Selch used it now as a receiving room, a place where he could dole out orders to his closest underofficers and meet with the men and women seeking his favor. It was modestly furnished, a few cushioned chairs arranged in a semicircle near the door, a few marble tables with feet ending in a zu’s talons or a coeurl’s paw. There were the two bookshelves, and red rugs with gold tassels covering the vaulted stone floor. The walls were here and there decorated with a bit of scrollwork, creating the illusion of protruding columns. That last was a touch too pompous for his tastes, but he must needs keep up appearances. </p><p>Emet-Selch came to this room often of late, to collect his thoughts and unwind after hours of enduring mortal prattle on strategy and statecraft. As if he did not know the field infinitely better than any of the fools who served as his so-called advisors. They could see the way the wind was blowing, though, and it made them nigh frantic with possibility. The republic was unraveling, the noble houses were consolidating under his banner, and men who had long yearned to rule an empire were clamoring for Emet-Selch’s approval. The campaign all but consumed him now, with his first major victory on the continent a looming promise. In a few more months, northern Ilsabard would be his. Solus Galvus had never dreamed of such triumph. </p><p>Solus. The pitiable man. He had been mostly silent for nigh on a year. Sometimes Emet-Selch wondered if he was simply fading away, in some dark corner of his skull, but the thought never preoccupied him for long. </p><p>A sudden knocking at the door made him turn. He had no appointments today that he could remember. </p><p><em>Probably another petitioner</em>, he thought. <em>Trying to catch me during odd hours.</em> “Enter,” he said lazily. </p><p>The door opened, and in stepped an Elezen woman all in blue silk and lace, knife-straight silver hair coming to just below her chin. He had seen her at a banquet held in his honor earlier that day, but they had only exchanged pleasantries. One more noblewoman among many, he supposed. Emet-Selch found it passing strange Jovian had not come in to announce her first, as he must have known they had not arranged this meeting beforehand. Then again, the man had a terrible weakness for pretty faces; a touch on the arm was probably all it had taken to let her in without question. </p><p>Emet-Selch was no stranger to all manner of pretty women seeking audience with him, though, and this one was rich by the look of her. He was slightly irritated at having been interrupted, but it had been a moon or so since a high lady had warmed his bed, and it might be worthwhile to amuse her for the time being. </p><p>“And you are...?” He smiled crookedly. </p><p>“Edrine Milault, my lord,” she said, dipping into a deep curtsy and offering her hand in greeting. He took it and brushed it with his lips. Indeed, she was one of the more beautiful Elezen women he had seen at the manor. “Daughter of Stefan Milault. My father is one of your legati.” </p><p>“Of course,” said Emet-Selch. He straightened, releasing her hand. “I know the man.” He was not lying. He made it a point to learn something of his legati, and her story checked out: Milault was a prominent Garlean nobleman with nearly a dozen children to his name—and more than half of them daughters, he knew. He had quickly seen the wisdom in joining his levies to Emet-Selch’s rather than stubbornly holding ground and losing men in the process. No, Milault had assured him, he needed no prodding. It suited him to hitch his wagon to Solus Galvus and his ambitious army rather than be swallowed whole by it. Emet-Selch thought he had been more than generous with his terms to the landed gentry. The noblemen who looked warily at an expanding House Galvus had only to pledge their swords to his, and he would allow them to keep their plots at the cost of men for his army and a modest monthly tribute in coin or ceruleum. Threaten to deter his ascendancy, and... well. His levies were well-trained and itching for a real fight after nearly a year of beating off ragged brigands and rattling their swords to persuade stubborn lordlings to move aside. The tension was palpable, and the majority of nobles did not want to test the growing army’s patience. Most importantly, Emet-Selch had magitek. Only once had he resorted to a full display of its firepower in the face of resistance, and that had resulted in the decimation of an entire manor and most of its ruling family, as well as the fields surrounding it. Labor machina turned war machina, fueled by ceruleum. Magitek armor was highly destructive; there had been no reason to search for bodies to bury afterward. </p><p>Emet-Selch mulled over all of this as he studied Edrine, smile never wavering. There should be little need to worry about outright resistance at this juncture, but the brazen idiocy of mortals was sometimes unpredictable. </p><p>“To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”</p><p>“Pray forgive my visiting on such short notice,” she said, lashes fluttering, “as well as my being so forward, but I have never been one for dissimulation. We spoke briefly at the banquet, and I was not blind to the looks you gave me. To be blunt, my father thinks it a great shame that our up-and-coming... commander still lacks for a wife.” </p><p>Emet-Selch chuckled in spite of himself. Her pause spoke volumes. So she would not pretend she did not know he was trying to carve out an empire in Ilsabard and beyond. He did not bother to deny it, nor did he deny inspecting her at the banquet. Appreciating a fine form was not merely the domain of mortals. </p><p>“You must know you are a beautiful woman, Lady Edrine. Does your... father put you forward as a choice, then?” His pause could imply just as much as hers. </p><p>“Not in so many words.” Emet-Selch did not offer a chair, and Edrine made no move to sit. A confident woman. She would not challenge his mild rudeness. “But he <em>suggests</em>. He thinks I’m fit for managing a household, and he worries that I may surpass marriageable age before he can settle me down. He is impatient.” </p><p>“It is a father’s wont to fret for his children’s well-being. But I am certain you will be a great beauty well into your twilight years, not to mention capable of fending for yourself. I daresay you have plenty of time to find a suitable match.” </p><p>“Hmm.” She made a small, satisfied sound. “Well, I believe it is clear who I have in mind for a match. If my lord would be so kind as to humor me.” </p><p><em>Mortals think so very highly of themselves</em>. And he rarely found it endearing. </p><p>Pretending to be amused, Emet-Selch gestured to a marble table underneath one of the windows. On it, a round silver tray held a steaming pitcher of wine and assorted goblets with precious stones circling their rims. It was almost always cold in Ilsabard, so hot spiced wine was customary. “Will you take wine, my lady? The servant brought the tray not five minutes ago.” </p><p>Edrine smiled prettily. “Why, yes, my lord Solus. That would be lovely.” </p><p><em>She thinks she’s won, that I am seriously going to consider her offer</em>. Emet-Selch smiled back, a little less crookedly this time, then began pouring the wine himself. He did not trust her one whit, of course. He trusted no mortals, not completely. They were constantly at odds, constantly seeing what they could gain from swindling others. In comparison, he thought his machinations tame; he at least was aimed for a greater good, something everyone alive would have yearned for desperately if they knew any better. But thinking too long about such things only made him bitter, and lonely besides. Must keep up appearances. He turned once done pouring, holding out a goblet for her. </p><p>Edrine took it with a murmur of thanks, then began examining the rim thoughtfully. “Beautiful workmanship on these. By the look of it... the gems are from Limsa Lominsa?” He nodded, and she tipped her head back to drink. Her throat worked as she swallowed, and it was clear she wished Emet-Selch to follow the porcelain arrow of her neck down to the expanse of her bosom. Her head came level again, eyes sparkling as she tracked his gaze. “And the vintage... Gridanian, if I am not mistaken. A good year. Eorzea is full of riches.” Her smile turned cheeky at that. </p><p>“My lady knows much.” </p><p>“I have to, if I am to be in the company of great men,” she said, stepping closer. “And any fool can see you are already a great man. Poised to be an icon for the history books, perhaps. You could use a woman of knowledge at your side.”</p><p>Predictable. So many of these noblemen and women were after power, offering anything they had to hand in exchange for it. But she was being so very blunt. He furrowed his brow, ignoring his own wine goblet. </p><p>“You must know I take lovers,” he said, “and I’ve no shortage of rich, knowledgeable women among those I bed. But for the nonce I do not plan on making any of them my wife.” He shrugged. If she were going to put forth this argument, he would make her fight for it. “You may have resources, but so do they. What more could you possibly offer me?”</p><p>Almost before he realized it, Edrine was ilms away, reaching out and stroking the side of his face with one hand. She was tall, and could nearly meet his eye without standing on tiptoe. Her hand left his cheek to trail slowly down his chest, stopping to hover just above the waist. She began speaking lowly. “It is not only a question of the resources I can offer. I promise other perks.” She bit her lip. “I... have been trained. I can show you things not even imagined in the pleasure houses of Garlemald.” </p><p>Well, that was something to consider at least. He had never had a trained courtesan before. “Go on,” he said. </p><p>“If you’d like,” she whispered huskily, “I can give you a sample of what I know in your chambers.” </p><p>“Indeed?” Emet-Selch blinked slowly at her. Her eyes were a muted blue, like ice under moonlight. Boring into his. “I think I might enjoy that.” Edrine’s face was tilted, their noses nearly touching, and he closed the gap for them, kissing her fiercely. She answered in kind, tongue probing his mouth, teeth clicking against his in her urgency. The faint bitterness of the wine meshed with her smell, a perfume he did not recognize, something berry-scented.  </p><p>Emet-Selch never felt anything in moments like this, except for the primal response of his body. His mind and emotions were closed off to mortals, blank and empty. The primary feelings he associated with them were anger and distaste. Nothing intimate. Nothing lasting. Mummery, all of it. </p><p>They kissed a few moments more, never going further than light fondling of hair or waistline, not with wine goblets in their hands. Eventually Edrine broke off, folding into one of the chairs about ten paces away and setting her goblet down on a side table. She seemed to think she needed no invitation to sit now. “So, are you enticed, my lord?” She laughed. </p><p>"Quite," said Emet-Selch. Again, it was not a complete lie. "I would be glad to see what else you can offer me.” He would bed her, then decide if she were worth keeping around. As simple as that.  </p><p>“<em>Lovely,</em>” she said, a touch breathless but with a girlish joy suffusing her voice. "First, though, I think I would like more wine. If it please my lord."</p><p>“Of course,” said Emet-Selch, and he turned his back on her to reach for the tray. </p><p>He had only the shortest whisper of metal on silk as warning—but even that was more than enough. In less than half a second he had summoned a pocket of Wind aether and shoved it behind him. When he turned around, he found himself nearly eye-level with a sharp steel blade about a handspan long. The knife hung harmless in the air. Emet-Selch took a sip from his own wine goblet, licking his lips. She was right. It was a very fine Gridanian vintage. </p><p>Edrine was up from the chair, standing in the middle of the room. Her right arm arced forward as if she had just thrown something. She was stock still now, mouth agape at what she was seeing. </p><p>“I—I don’t understand—“</p><p>Emet-Selch manipulated the Wind aether in the time it took to draw a breath, simultaneously encasing the room in a thin veil of air and forming a tube around the knife. With a zipping sound the blade was flipped and flung in the opposite direction, with such force that it pierced Edrine’s right hand and dragged her back a yalm or more, pinning her against the wall.</p><p>She gawked at the blade, at the blood pumping from her palm, staining the scrollwork on the wall, running black into the ruffles of her sleeve. “Gods have mercy!” she shrieked, that last word shrill as a harpy’s cry. “Gods have <em>mercy!</em>” </p><p>“Let me tell you something, you backstabbing harlot,” said Emet-Selch, crossing the room in a few short strides as she collapsed into hyperventilation and breathy wails. He did not care if she saw how unnaturally he moved now. “You are not worth the energy it would take to kill you with magic.” He threw the wine in her face, emptying the goblet completely. She spluttered around her cries, but no one would hear them with the room warded against sound. He grabbed her chin with his free hand, made a hair-thin aether probe, and delved her almost carelessly through one eye. The process did not cause pain, but it did create a heavy sensation in one’s limbs. She had no aura, so he suspected she was merely one of the half-formed ghosts that made up the majority of this world, with little to no Amaurotine heritage to speak of. Seconds later he was sure. He snapped the aether out, bundled it back into himself, and jerked her chin up with contempt. </p><p>“You are low. Lower than those blind white worms that drag themselves through the sands of Thanalan.” Truly it never paid to trust mortals. Not at all. </p><p>“Not low enough to gain access to you,” she said, having recovered somewhat, “not low enough to almost—“</p><p>“What could you possibly have achieved?” he roared. “You thought you could put me off guard and kill me with naught but knives?” For one brief instant he let the mask he had worn as an Amaurotine flash over his face, angry and red. “You would need the very gods behind your arm to accomplish <em>that</em>.” </p><p>Edrine swallowed, then shook her head. With her right hand pinned, she was forced into a sort of awkward slump, one knee on the ground, the other hand flat against the wall. "So you... are not even human. I knew there was something strange about you, but....” She had a lost look to her. As if she had peered long into a chasm she were about to fall into, and for the first time grasped just how deep it was. </p><p>“No indeed. I am greater.” </p><p>“Greater? Perhaps. As voidsent are greater.” She barked a laugh. “But I don’t care what you are.” Lost look or not, she could snarl with the best of them. “You still deserve to die, whoever you pretend to be.” She pulled against the knife of a sudden, but Emet-Selch had put a nasty little burr in the aether he’d used to redirect and fling the blade. Any attempt to dislodge it would send great spikes of pain through her arm, strong enough to debilitate even more than the initial wound itself had. She gasped, flinched, tried to set her face back into righteous fury. </p><p>Emet-Selch’s mouth twisted. “You talked of hating dissimulation. But you can hardly be who you say you are either.” He dropped the goblet so it clattered across the floor. “Stefan Milault has more daughters than he knows what to do with, but I would wager a pretty that he’d be shocked to find he has a daughter named ‘Edrine.’ I doubt I miss my guess here.” </p><p>Edrine was breathing through her nose now—deep quick breaths to ward off pain, he wagered—but she said nothing. It all but confirmed his theory. For a few seconds the only other sound in the room was the tap-tap-tap of wine sliding down her face and dripping to the floor. </p><p>“Who are you really?” he asked finally. </p><p>She stared defiance at him, then seemed to come to a decision. “Mousard,” she whispered through her teeth. “Orliene Mousard.” </p><p>“Ah!” It was beginning to make sense now. Emet-Selch chuckled deep in his throat, then drew up to her again. “I watched the Mousard manor burn from afar. Yours was the first noble family stupid enough to resist me. At least you had the wisdom to run. Your parents and siblings thought they could hunker down behind their walls and withstand an onslaught of magitek weaponry.” He stepped back, spreading his hands. “And I suppose you, in your fury, took up arms and wriggled into my court to get to me. How very like a storybook heroine.” </p><p>“I did not come here just for revenge,” she got out with some difficulty. The pain showed in her voice, but it did not much dampen her ability to speak. “Milault found out I was still alive, that I’d been trained, and he contacted me. He’s wanted you dead for ages now. Almost as soon as you named him legatus.” She gave him a hard smile, showing wine-stained teeth. “You may have stopped me, but there will be others. Dozens at least, out for your life. You mark me on that, monster.”</p><p>Emet-Selch smiled. Her raised eyebrows showed that was not the reaction she had expected from him, not in the slightest. “So there are those who want me dead already, are there? It was inevitable, I suppose. But I never trust mortals, so your words serve merely as superfluous warning. I do appreciate you naming Milault specifically, though.”</p><p>Edrine spat on the floor next to his boot. “I want no thanks from you, monster. You all but vaporized my family. My home. I was too hasty, too careless, but someone will get to you, and you will pay for the devastation you’ve wrought. Someday. In this life or the next, you will suffer for it.” </p><p>Emet-Selch studied her, head cocked to one side. Three steps closer and he was ilms away again, meeting her gaze, though he had to crouch slightly to stay level with it. “There is no ‘next life’ for me, my dear. Your words frighten me not. Words seldom do.” Without overture he began to search blithely at her waist, up her sleeves, at the tops of her thighs. She grunted lightly at this, but kept her mouth shut—out of fear or fool pride, Emet-Selch did not know. From these hiding places he pulled out three more slim knives, identical to the blade pinning her hand to the wall. </p><p>“Whoever trained you did a poor job of it,” he murmured, selecting one blade out and tapping it idly against the palm of his hand. It was keen and sharp, well-honed. “Milault must have been desperate to send you on such a mission. You should have kept running from your manor that day, glad for your life. You should have never given me another thought.” For the first time, fear bloomed on her face. No matter how prepared, the knowledge of inevitable death shook all mortals. “You were at least somewhat useful. I thank you.” </p><p>She started to say something else, maybe something to pacify him, but before she could get more than a word or two out he had gripped the knife hard in hand, and with one quick motion stabbed her in the chest. The blade met some resistance, but he had found his mark. A reflexive cough bit off her shriek, and her eyes began to glaze over, mouth lolling open. It seemed to him a knowing look spread across her face. Her head drooped slowly down toward the handle protruding from her breast.</p><p>Emet-Selch was done talking. “Edrine” had been dead the moment she walked into the room with that fool plan of hers. She must have had no idea he could wield magic. She’d had no chance. He kept his grip on the knife handle, holding her dimming gaze as she swayed to the side, blood welling from beneath the blade. Her mouth moved, but no sound came out. He waited for her to die, expression blank. It was slower in coming than he had expected. </p><p>When she moved no more, Emet-Selch let the woman drop. She slumped to the ground, legs cocked at odd angles, right hand still pinned; she looked like a battered mannequin with one string cut. A large patch of crimson, like a painter’s careless brushstroke, smeared the wall where Emet-Selch had found her heart. Blood and wine covered his coat and gloves; a small price to pay. He snapped his fingers, and in an instant the air encasing the room in silence dissipated. </p><p>“Jovian!” Emet-Selch barked, and a heartbeat later the big man was there, door slamming open with a crash. He took in the bloody scene before him, face screwing up in horror. </p><p>“M-my lord? What in the seven hells happened here?” It was then that he noticed the blood on Emet-Selch’s clothing; the shock nigh turned his face purple. “Did she hurt you, my lord? I-I didn’t hear a thing. My deepest apologies, my deepest shame. She seemed a f-fine lady; I thought—s-surely—you’d have no need to worry about a pretty woman joining you in your receiving room. I... I...”</p><p>“Quiet, Jovian,” said Emet-Selch lowly. He knew Jovian had once respected the man he thought was Solus Galvus, but since his rise to power that respect had morphed into fear. Fear suited Emet-Selch. “I’ve no desire for you to choke on your tongue, and I’ve no desire to punish you. I am unharmed. She tried to kill me, yes, but I can defend myself. Now. I want you to dispose of this body and all of its effects. As discretely as possible.” He thought on that for a second, then added, “Mark me. Not a whisper to anyone else. Not even to Augusta.” Augusta was not a servant, per se, but she was quite loyal to him, and spent a good deal of time with Jovian. At the mention of her name, a cry of pain echoed in his mind, then was gone. “If word does get out that this woman came to my rooms, you can offer something approaching truth. I care not what.” He really was not overly concerned. No one would dare challenge him on this. </p><p>It took a moment for Jovian to tear his eyes from the body. “Yes, my lord. O-of course. I’ll see what I can do. I’ll have new clothes brought too. I’ll not be half a bell.” And he trotted off to gather up whatever it was he thought he needed. </p><p>By the time he returned, Emet-Selch had collapsed into one of his cushioned chairs, one leg crossed over the other, and was sipping from a new goblet of wine. Jovian set about dealing with the corpse with customary gusto, if tinged by terror. He asked no further questions—his own doubts and concerns were as nothing compared to what the great lord Solus needed. He had some plan to push the body out underneath a wheeled food cart, which Emet-Selch supposed would do just as well as anything else. He did not care what the man did with it after that; he was too busy ruminating over the implications of “Edrine’s” attempt on his life. The whole ordeal demonstrated clear as crystal that he was important enough to want dead. He was not even emperor yet, and already he was sowing chaos to make his fellows proud. When Zodiark returned, dark in his glory, he would name him first among his followers. That was all but certain. </p><p>Emet-Selch watched as Jovian dragged Edrine onto the cart he had found, positioning her so that the white cloth draping the tray above completely obscured her. As he was arranging her body, though, her face popped out from underneath the cloth for a brief moment. Emet-Selch had killed mortals before, but never as personally as this, and never before a woman. She had played assassin and been killed for it, dying for a revenge she could never have hoped to exact. Accomplishing nothing. Her eyes stared back up at him from across the room, empty and hollow. </p><p><em>Mummery, all of it.</em>  </p><p>His future would be full to bursting of those hollow stares. He did not balk at the prospect. Conquerors had always paved their way to glory on the backs of the dead and dying; Allag had taught him that, if anything had. He took another swig of the wine. No, he had lived too long, seen too much to dwell on the bitterness of mortal death. Maybe he would have mourned something like this long ago, but not now. Curiously, the wine seemed to sharpen his thoughts, and as Jovian wheeled the body out, Emet-Selch looked away to study the map on the wall, at the bold marks in his hand. This map, the one he kept and marked alone so as to demonstrate to his officers that only he knew the full extent of the campaign. Tomorrow he would order the march into the province that would extend his territory all the way to the western coast. “Empire” was already on the lips of the smallfolk, according to his spies. This move would all but place the coronation wreath on his head. </p><p>Milault was out for his blood? Traitors swarmed around him like snakes in the grass? So be it. That was the way of war, of sitting on top of the heap. You always had greedy scrabbling vermin to crush. Emet-Selch frowned at the bloody marks his gloves had left on the goblet, at the bloody swipe on the wall staining the golden scrollwork. What kind of rat would Milault and the others be? What sort of trap would he use to ensnare them? </p><p>He drank deep of the wine, thinking hard on what he would do, until long after night darkened the sky through the window. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. purple</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I had completely forgotten when starting this series that “zos” denotes the emperor according to Garlean naming convention, which means in this story Solus has been going by “Solus zos Galvus” before he even becomes emperor! I have since gone back to correct this error in previous chapters. My bad!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The scaffold has been erected in the main square the night before. Against the purpling dawn sky its silhouette was stark, its edges sun-gilded gold. Garlemald was hyper-modernizing, its own technology centuries beyond what Eorzea and other regions could even imagine; and yet, there was something simple and elegant about the scaffold that could not but draw the eye. It was sharp and angular—perfect, in its way. Emet-Selch thought it marvelous. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He was looking down on the city from his new manor house, built several months ago by masons eager to please the rising star of Garlemald. The manor was by far the most beautiful structure in the city, its exterior marble, its balconies shaded by filigreed arches, its countless spires jutting fanglike into the air. Colonnaded walks swirled like piled clouds around the upper floors—a spectacular feat of Garlean architecture, he had to admit—lending the manor an almost faerie tale quality. Emet-Selch enjoyed fine things to a point, but as always, his primary aim was to look the part. The man who would be emperor must live in a building that was a palace in all but name, and what harm to imply this palace’s occupant was perhaps just as otherworldly as his abode? </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The rest of the city was much less remarkable. Buildings in drab grays and browns bunched together, bleeding almost one into the next, wooden and stone structures of three floors or more, some with connecting walkways spanning the cobblestone streets a dozen or so yalms below. More prosperous merchants had their shops and homes forming concentric circles around the city center, the focus of wealth in Garlemald, with poorer and poorer dwellings rippling out from there. Furthest away from the city center, shantytowns clung to the edge of the capital like hungry leeches, wood and thatch and cloth far more common building materials than stone or brick. They were an eyesore, those roughshod dwellings, especially in comparison to the sumptuous homes of the city center. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">All these buildings in wood and stone clashed with the shining silver of war and labor machina that now lined the many streets converging on the central square fronting the manor. Before the warmachina stood nearly double their number in soldiers, men outfitted in the colors of House Galvus with burnished breastplates and feathered helms lacquered in black and gold. The square itself—and the streets and alleyways leading to it—brimmed with citizens, some of them minor nobles or wealthy merchants, most of them smallfolk in their best woolens come to see something they would tell their grandchildren about. The day Garlemald became an empire. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Solus Galvus’s coronation had been declared a feast day, a day for celebration and merrymaking. Food and vendor stalls had already been erected, hawkers cried their wares in front of the shops pressing against the main street, jugglers and fools capered about for a smile and a few tossed coins. But despite the general commotion, most eyes were on the scaffold in the middle of the square, bleak and imposing. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The sun was peeking well over the tallest buildings now, bathing square and scaffold in creamy yellow light. Emet-Selch made a gesture, and his valet scampered from the door to pluck up his coat and place it across his shoulders. The man’s long legs and beak of a nose made him look like a very large heron. Emet-Selch did not know his name. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It is time,” he said, shrugging his arms through the sleeves. He studied himself in the full-length mirror on the wall: hair, clothing, and regalia all in place. “Have my retinue ready themselves. I will meet them in the foyer. And have the masons prepare the dais and bring out the chair and wreath.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Right away, my lord.” The valet scuttled away to do as bid. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Emet-Selch waited a few moments, then left his chambers, making a point to stride slowly and leisurely down the corridor to the main entrance hall. It never did to arrive anywhere before those lower on the ladder than you, of course. </span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">A varied group waited in front of the large bronze doors leading out to the square. Five members of the dissolving republican leadership all in the reds and blacks of senators, the head magister of the city, several liveried footmen, and of course Augusta. They clucked fussily at the approach of Emet-Selch. He well knew that most of the people here had only ceded power to him because they had been all but forced to in the face of the overwhelming military might he possessed, but he lamented this state of affairs not a bit. </span> <em><span class="s2">What would that one’s respect gain me?</span></em> <span class="s1"> Emet-Selch thought, smirking at an oily-looking senator whose scowl immediately turned into a simpering grin. </span> <em><span class="s2">Or that one’s?</span></em> <span class="s1"> His gaze flicked to another senator, a plump, graying woman in red silk with sleeves dripping lace over her heavily beringed fingers. </span> <span class="s2">As well wish for the respect of insects. <em>Fear is always preferable where mortals are involved. </em></span></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Only Augusta inclined her head with the respect he was due, and that only because she was in love with him—or perhaps more to the point, she was in love with Solus Galvus. Emet-Selch had deigned to take her into his bed on a few disparate occasions over the years, often enough to keep her loyal, often enough to keep her family’s money flowing into his coffers. He knew she wished for more than his touch, but even she could not possibly be stupid enough to think he would prop her up beyond her station. Mortals always surprised him in that respect. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “let me first thank you for agreeing to my terms. You have been most wise in doing so. Today we make history. Brigands at our borders, whispers of conflict abroad. The need for strong centralized leadership in Garlemald has never been greater.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“As you say, my lord,” said a youngish senator, a Hyur with shaggy brown hair to his shoulders. “Please know that we stand ready to advise you should you require it.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">A Lalafell with streaming mustaches coughed pompously. “I would go further, my lord Solus. You need a full council to rule properly, and who better to form your fledgling court than we five? Surely you understand that going from a republic to an empire is no small feat. No, not even you with all your accomplishments can manage it alone.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Still they tried to play this game with him. How often had he told them—politely, no less!—that he would take advisors as the need arose, but that the remnants of the senate would be little more than ornamental when it came right down to it? He had no desire to bandy words with them about this, now less than ever. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I am emperor, Senator,” said Emet-Selch coolly. “You will have your say under my reign, but know your place.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You are not emperor until you are crowned,” said the Lalafell. The words were clear and sharp despite the sweat beading on his forehead. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Emet-Selch sneered, but a small part of him was pleased. It was somewhat gratifying to see mortals with backbone. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Keep that in mind when you see what I have prepared for you all,” he said lowly. “We go.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Emet-Selch led the way out of the manor with his retinue, out into the plaza. As soon as they cleared the doors, thundering cheers and applause rose to meet them. Streamers and small bits of colored paper fluttered through the air, accompanied by the bang of firecrackers popular with children. He raised an appreciative hand to the greeting, a demure smile on his lips. As with officers and servants, he preferred that subjects fear him rather than love him, but some celebration at his appearance was certainly not unwelcome. He scanned the crowd, seeing mostly dirty faces, though plumed hats here and there marked out the wealthy who had come to see history in the making.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Soldiers lined the way to a marble dais standing in front of the scaffold, keeping the press from breaking through and mobbing Emet-Selch. A few masons in stained leather vests were several paces ahead, huffing as they carried a heavily gilded chair up a ramp set into the dais. Muscles corded and hands gripped white-knuckled to keep the ostentatious thing from touching the ground. They finally managed to lift the chair to its proper place in the center of the dais, setting it down with a clunk that resounded hollowly around the square. At a nod from the departing workmen, Emet-Selch walked up the short ramp to where the chair sat next to a plinth holding a pillow and a small glimmering object. His retinue followed, flowing around chair and plinth like a stream around a rock. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Across the way, soldiers were escorting four well-dressed nobles up the steps of the scaffold. All were in their finery, with house colors and sigils embroidered on lapels or high necklines. Three men and one woman, the most important of them Stefan Milault, formerly one of Emet-Selch’s top legati. They had been expecting the headsman’s block, but Emet-Selch had made the decision to hang them instead. For centuries, hanging had been the fate of robbers and brigands in Garlemald, the lowest sorts of criminals. It was unheard of for the wealthy. With a smile, Emet-Selch remembered Milault’s eyes trying to pop out of his head when he had made that particular proclamation. He was surprised the man had not poisoned himself before today. He had that much dignity at least. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The soldier-escorts stepped back when the nobles had taken their places over the trapdoors. They were now facing the nooses. The crowd was left to chatter over the sight, their gazes torn between the soon-to-be emperor on his dais and the four traitors at the gallows. The people had known there was to be a hanging this morning, but never before had wealthy and powerful Garleans been put on such shameful display. Not in living memory, anyhow; it was one thing to read about it in a history, quite another to see it. And during a coronation no less. Emet-Selch raised a hand, and silence quickly fell as he parted from his retinue, walking to the very edge of the dais. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It gives me great pleasure to stand before you all today,” he began. He had magnified his voice with a thin tube of Wind aether so it rang out over the gathering. “We have just emerged from a period of tremendous strife, a period of uncertainty and misery for many. Brigands of all kinds ravaging our lands, turmoil and infighting among our noble houses.” No one would dare suggest that he had been the cause for much of that infighting, with his rapid and sudden amassing of magitek weaponry. Not now. “Great strife requires great change in response. And change represents a chance for great opportunities. I can only hope that as emperor—“ and here there came a burst of cheers from the crowd “—I can help us make the best of those opportunities. First, however. I have a gift for you.” He extended a hand, indicating the scaffold before him; most of the crowd was already torn between gaping at him and atthe four people standing on it. “In exchange for the coronation wreath, I present to you traitors to our great state, captured and condemned. Traitors who would have seen us crushed under criminals from within and invaders from without. Today, they receive their just punishment.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">More cheers, shouts of “Galvus!” and “Solus and Garlemald!” Emet-Selch’s eyes settled on a point right above the scaffold, somewhere in the middle distance. With any luck, Milault would think he was looking straight at him. “But I understand it is customary to allow the condemned to speak before their execution,” he said. “While those you see on the scaffold are traitors of the worst sort, I will not let it be written that I denied them a last chance to speak before they pay for their crimes, as is their due.” He spread his hands. “So. Have you any words, condemned, you may speak them as you see fit. I will do naught to silence you.” He walked a few steps back and sat down in the gilded chair to a ripple of excited murmurs from the people. At the same time, he waved to set the soldiers to the task of preparing the condemned for the noose. He would let the traitors talk, but not entirely at their discretion. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The soldiers nodded, then seemed to move as one to the nobleman or woman before them. Milault wasted no time. “My fellow citizens,” he said in a loud voice, even as the soldier began draping the rope around his neck to snug it. You would almost think he were at a lectern, not his own execution. “See today what your new emperor calls justice. Hanging four of those loyal to him without trial over naught but rumors. Is this the kind of man you want blazing a trail into the future? I beseech you here and now. Think hard about what you are about to let happen.” The crowd, which had grown quiet at the start of Milault’s little speech, was humming with discontent now, confused heads turning, clenched fists shaking in rage. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Traitor!” someone close to the scaffold yelled. A second later something sailed out of the mass to hit Milault in the face. It exploded on impact, flecks of rotten fruit or vegetable or whatever it was showering the hair and lapels of the man to his right, a minor noble called Gregoire Leavont. He did not notice, his head bent to stare at the platform beneath his feet; Emet-Selch thought he might be crying. Lady Cabaut certainly was, tears streaming openly down her cheeks, while Alwold Machin, the only Hyur in the group, remained stoic, gazing out over the crowd with a stare that could mar stone. Milault was the only one Emet-Selch had condemned specifically; the other three had been chosen at random. Oh, they were all traitors to some degree—that he had been sure of—and these were far from the only turncloaks and backstabbers in his growing circle. In truth, he could not remember what each of their offenses had been, exactly, but it mattered not. Let the ones who had not been chosen today shiver in anticipation of being found out. Let the senators behind him cower with uncertainty, and sweat over if they would be next. Yes, it was far better to be feared than loved. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Milault only blinked as the rotten thing slid down his cheek to plop onto the wooden planks an ilm from his polished boots. The soldiers finished affixing ropes to the doomed four, and then stepped back several paces, staying well clear of the trapdoors. Leavont vomited, bile splattering the front of his silk vest. Fine boots, silk clothing. Beyond ridiculous to wear such things to your execution. Cabaut continued to weep silently, while sharp-featured Machin had assumed a dignified study of his belt buckle. A crow cawed loudly from somewhere near the stalls, but it was quickly drowned out by Leavont’s retching and the low rumble of the crowd. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“So this is your answer then?” Milault was not done, tiresome as he was, even with the man next to him sicking up. “You would bay for our blood? Let a tyrant take control of your land, your rights? You have dug your own graves.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Jeers more than anything else from the crowd now. Emet-Selch smiled. A good deal of the smallfolk here undoubtedly hated Milault more than they could ever hate an emperor who had not yet been crowned. Not only that: an emperor who had already promised them more than any lordling had ever deigned to give. Stefan Milault was far from the cruelest of this lot, but he had skimped on pay, let thieves run rampant. And there he stood, blathering on about fair treatment as if the people listening would not remember his own failings as a ruler. Emet-Selch found it truly incredible, how mortals could fool themselves like this. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You will never know justice!” Milault seemed to sense the mood of the crowd, buzzing as it was, and so began shouting to be heard. “Your new emperor is little more than a back alley murderer! He oversaw the razing of the Mousard manor! He killed Orliene Mousard himself!” Now that put Emet-Selch’s ears to points. People began to murmur curiously. How had that nugget gotten to Milault? Immediately his gaze swept to Jovian, red-faced and staring at the condemned man. It was all Emet-Selch could do not to kill him on the spot. He had not cared if the truth got out, not really, but had the oaf really been stupid enough to spread a rumor excluding the fact that Mousard had been sent to assassinate him? He would flay him alive if he found out that was even halfway to the truth. A problem to be dealt with later. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“A helpless woman!” Milault continued. “Forced into destitution after her family was murdered! She came pleading to him, offering her allegiance if he would only take her in. And do you know what she got for it?” His voice became shrill. “A knife in the chest! Yes, see your merciful leader now!”—and he pointed, eyes growing wild—“Orliene Mousard was killed for daring to beg forgiveness from Solus Galvus!” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">A horrid lie, but closer than Emet-Selch liked to something that could reverse his fortunes. Time to make an end. His hand sliced the air, and Jovian jerked to attention, then pulled a lever near the beams. With a clank the small trapdoors swung open and the four nobles dropped like heavy sacks. Whatever Milault had been about to say next cut off in a squeak, his outstretched arm cracking against the edge of the platform as he plummeted past it. The ropes went from slack to taut as they took the weight of their victims, supports creaked with strain. Lady Cabaut hung limp after the first jerk of the noose, the fall having broken her neck instantly, while the unlucky men drummed the air with their heels. The crowd was awash with all sorts of reactions. Cries of surprise, continuous shouts of treason, one man braying his laughter like a donkey and aiming more refuse at a writhing Gregoire. This was spectacle to them, grander and more gruesome than anything they had ever seen before. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">For himself, Emet-Selch watched the nobles die like he had Orliene Mousard. It neither amused nor disgusted him. It simply was. Mortals died, and it did not make much difference to him how it happened. If they proved roadblocks, all the better that they die before their time. His retinue did not take death so well in stride. The senators flanking him put on brave faces, but one of the footmen was trembling, and Augusta had turned to vomit noisily into the street. They were so soft. Even if they remained loyal, even if they did nothing to anger him, they would die, one way or another. The soft always did. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It was several moments before the bodies stopped moving. Leavont was the last to die, poor terrified Leavont, with his sick-stained vest and tears making tracks down his dusty face. He whimpered, and struggled, and finally fell silent as breath and energy fled. Wetness spread from the crotch of his trousers, making dark fans down the insides of his legs. Spittle and bile dripped from his open mouth. The three other dead faces stared back at him too, pale and bruised with pink tongues jutting absurdly. <em>They look like scarecrows,</em> Emet-Selch thought. <em>They do not even look real. Open them up, and stuffing will come pouring out.</em> He was minded of the blood that had covered him after killing Orliene. A messy business, death. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Normally the soldiers would have taken the bodies down to prepare them for burning or burial around this time, but Emet-Selch had decided to leave them up for the rest of the day as a reminder. Leavont swung next to the other three, his face frozen in a mask of terror; Milault and Cabaut remained shocked; Machin still glared daggers at the crowd. Their eyes bulged, all unseeing now, the skin above their necks purple as ripe plums. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>Is that what I will look like?</em> he wondered idly. <em>When I die?</em> His mouth twisted. He could not remember dying before, during the Third Astral Era. Surely it had been grander than this. A fly-bite of a thought in his ear. <em>You have been too long in the body of a mortal. You are beginning to think like one.</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He looked away from the bodies to the coronation circlet. It sat on a small velvet pillow on the plinth next to the chair, gold and silver entwined to make a heavy slanting wreath that glimmered in the sun. Emeralds sparkling amid the silver loops were meant to mimic the vines that had once been braided through the wreath, back when the circlet had been only a stark piece carved from wood. Apparently it was ancient custom on the continent to crown rulers in this way. Emet-Selch had always been a great one for custom and ritual, especially when it was he who uncovered the long-forgotten ritual in question. It often required many hours in the dusty back rooms of this-or-that manor’s abandoned library, but he derived a certain thrill from these discoveries. Mortals tossed old and somber things away with such reckless abandon. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“A tiresome thing, hanging, is it not?” Emet-Selch said lazily to the crowd. Tittering in response. Somewhere out there, in the press near the stalls, a baby was crying. A few women as well. Harsh, wet sounds. “I did not want to let Milault stoke you all into a rage on today of all days. This is only the beginning. As I said, I give you them—“ and he gestured again to the swaying bodies “—as a coronation gift. To assure you that the traitorous and corrupt have only the noose to look forward to.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The crying quieted somewhat, then was swallowed entirely in the great hush that fell as the magister stepped forward, leather shoes whispering over the polished marble of the dais. “A marvelous gift indeed, my lord. What a testament to your charity and good will. You promise us much, as any ruler should.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He was the oldest man Emet-Selch had ever seen, with eyes peeking out from a Hyuran face made cavernous from deep wrinkles. Wisps of white hair clung defiantly to his head, like clouds around a knobby mountaintop. Gingerly he picked up the circlet from the pillow, then looked meaningfully at Emet-Selch. “May I, my lord?” he asked quietly so that only they two could hear. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>Why wait any longer?</em> Emet-Selch rose from the chair and knelt, then inclined his head to receive the wreath. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The crowning itself was met with the applause and raucous cheering that he had expected. Then the magister straightened, turned to the crowd, and spoke. Emet-Selch remained kneeling, letting the words wash over him. They were rich, flowery words, but empty. He was to be Solus zos Galvus now, the title “zos” denoting the emperor. The magister talked of Garlemald righting itself and being set back on the path to glory; he talked of expanding their territory, and finding new arable land for farms, and reaping wealth they had never dreamed of before. Emet-Selch would grant some of that, yes. Maybe even all of it, if it fit into his plans. But those smiling faces out in the crowd, these solemn faces ringing him, they had no impact on what he truly hoped to achieve. None at all. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When the time came, the senators and nobles who made up his retinue formed a line like a hook leading to just in front of the dais, where they would kiss the new emperor’s hand and pronounce their loyalty for one and all to hear. The magister had enthusiastically insisted on this arrangement a few days beforehand, and Emet-Selch had agreed to it just to get him to shut up. He was a font of bureaucratic and clerical wisdom, the magister, but he was also a sniveling old sycophant, and he could not wait to play loyal lapdog to the new and illustrious ruler of Garlemald. There would be dust in his wispy hair soon, from all the bowing in his future. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">They came in their line then, nobles and senators and other important men and women, kissing Emet-Selch’s hand with dull expressions, forgotten as soon as they left his sight. More pomp and circumstance he could have easily done without, but what was it he kept telling himself? Must keep up appearances. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Instead of scowling, he let the milling of the crowd and the cries for Emperor Solus zos Galvus and the soft catechism of “I pledge to obey, now and forever” fade into a background swirl. It was comforting, something he could do effortlessly as an Amaurotine. Manipulating aether was slightly more difficult as a mortal, but only slightly. Was he truly becoming too used to this life? The Lalafellin senator who had defied him in the foyer was next, and he was the only one to look Emet-Selch right in the eye. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Almost without thinking his gaze shifted to the four swinging corpses across the square. Despite that fly-buzz scold of a thought from earlier, he looked from glassy stare to glassy stare and wondered. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em> <span class="s1">Will I end like that? In Zodiark’s name, will I see any end at all? </span> </em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The dead faces only stared back in silence. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. blue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The woman they’d picked for him was a pretty specimen. She stood shifting from foot to foot on the red carpet, eyeing its gold tassels as Emet-Selch removed his coat and slung it on the post of his grandly carved bed. Two ornate marble-lined fireplaces kept his chambers quite warm, even with the window half open. Warm interiors were a luxury in most of Ilsabard; the damned country never saw true summer.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He watched the woman carefully, seeing if she would speak first. She’d retired from the ballroom demure as you please, then came knocking politely at his door an hour later like a serving maid with tea. She was a well-built Hyuran, wider in the hips than most of the women who’d been paraded in front of him at court, but he’d insinuated to his advisors that this was the type he preferred. He was not sure why, really; the mortal form could be alluring to him, but he had no solid preferences in truth. He had said it on a whim, laughing in his cups, and one ambitious advisor had rushed to find the woman best suited to that particular description. Which, as it turned out, happened to be his own daughter.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">This, indeed, was the new empress of Garlemald. Cassia—what had her surname been?—well, no matter; she was Cassia yae Galvus now. This one, unlike so many others, he could not so easily forget.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“So you’ve come,” he said, impatient at her silence. “Shall we proceed to the bedding, or would you prefer stimulating conversation first?” There was an ironic bite to his voice, impossible to miss.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“N-no?” She stifled a cough with one hand. She was so nervous he could practically see the air quivering around her. Hardly an inviting way to begin their first private conversation, but Emet-Selch did not much care. He was not one for doling out wine or sweet words before a tryst. Make no mistake, she’d come to go to bed with him, as she thought he expected on their wedding night. He did, and he was glad he did not have to goad her to that at least. “I mean, er... whatever you wish, Your Radiance.” She shook her head at the slip-up.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Emet-Selch tsked. “Now, now. I might reprimand a dignitary for not following the proper forms of address, but you are my wife. If you wish, you may call me Solus. When we are alone, of course.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Cassia blinked, face turning red. She looked as if he’d told her to call him a whoreson.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“As y-you say.” She swallowed audibly. “Solus.” </span>
</p><p class="p2">The wedding ceremony had ended mere bells ago, and both bride and groom had only had a scant few moments to speak together before now. Emet-Selch did not know quite what to make of the woman. She was less haughty than most nobly-born mortals, which was a relief, and from what he could tell, she had at least a shard of an Amaurotine soul. That was always an interesting thing to probe.</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She was also related to Jovian, his former manservant. He was not sure how closely related, but Garlean nobles regarded their family trees with a reverence usually accorded religious texts. And he felt like batting her around a bit, after the tedium of the wedding and the dinner and the ball.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You know, I think we could stand to converse a spell,” said Emet-Selch. “Let me ask you something, between us two. This is not a test, but I prefer honesty. Do you think I killed Jovian, Cassia?” He had. Several months ago, he had decided to question the man concerning the rumors about Orliene Mousard’s death. He had not liked the answers he’d received. As a result, Jovian had burned to ash where he stood in Emet-Selch’s solar, surely dead before he even realized what was happening to him. It had been easy enough to clean up. The gossip went that Jovian had grown prickly at his lowly station after so long serving Solus zos Galvus, so he had run away to join rebels in the west. This amused Emet-Selch no end.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Cassia shook her head violently. “No,” she said. Her voice gave that as a lie, but she was obviously terrified. She would never stand against him, not in any way that mattered. Who could, without the ability to use magic? She was as fragile and breakable as the wooden dolls Garlean children loved to play with.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I see.” Fragile she might be, but her answer proved he could not truly trust her, not that he expected much else. “How about this. Do you think I am some sort of demon who can manipulate aether?” The last word was mirthful, as if he were struggling not to laugh at the very idea. “Some at court joke that I am, as I understand.” Some did more than joke.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No,” she said, this time slowly. Not a lie, but clearly not something she felt confident about. She had not expected him to abandon the first question so quickly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Emet-Selch smirked at the uncertainty. “You are not easily swayed by gossip. How reassuring.” He did not pursue it further. “And now, if you please. What was your situation, before your father presented you to me?” He knew most of this already, but he was slightly curious. Her soul was Amaurotine if very faintly. From what he could tell, she had not been anyone of any real station those many eons ago, but he was always intrigued by those who shared a connection with him, however tenuous.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She licked her lips as if she were not sure what he wanted her to say. Then, tentatively: “I should think you know I come from a rather prosperous merchant family. I was betrothed to the son of a Garlean banker about a year ago. He was the heir, set to take over the family business. We were to be wed in a few months. Then...” She shrugged. “Our fortunes changed with the ceruleum boom. We became richer. Much richer. So many of the noble houses had already fallen, and my father moved up in the world, loyal to your house as he was. Then he told me you had seen me at a ball at court, that you sought my hand in marriage. And...” The rest was obvious. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Did you love him? This banker?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I...” She paused, then clearly decided not to lie. A wise decision. Her voice turned sad. “Yes, if you have to ask, my lord Solus. I did.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She was not stupid, but she had proved uninteresting. This was a story fit for a child’s book of depressing faerie tales; there was nothing there that spoke of past glory as an Amaurotine, nor any worthwhile mortal exploits either! And she was to be his empress for decades, or however long? He scoffed. “Well, I for one would be grateful. Your father saw the opportunity to marry you to me and he jumped at it, no matter that he had to scrap your engagement. I admire the acumen. A shame to waste your childbearing years on a mere banker when you could have an emperor, eh?” Emet-Selch laughed, knowing this a very cruel thing to say. It was just that mortals could make him look downright charitable at times!</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Cassia flinched like she had been slapped, but she laughed along with him timidly. “Despite it all, I am... I am truly grateful, yes.”</span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">Her small smile was so pathetic that a part of him recoiled. </span> <em> <span class="s2">I suppose I could stand to be kinder to this one</span></em><span class="s1">, he thought. </span> <em> <span class="s2">I can toy with consorts, but it might be to my benefit to ingratiate myself here.</span></em><span class="s1"> Had he ever been truly kind, as a mortal or otherwise? He could not recall.</span></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He decided to focus on something else. “Well, you needn’t worry if I find you comely,” he said. Something productive. She had visited his rooms for this, after all. He went to the bed, pulled the sheets back, and began unbuttoning his undershirt. “I find you plenty comely, I assure you. As you do me, I presume?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Cassia plucked at the sleeve of her long green cloak, seemingly unsure of how to answer. He had hurt her, that was for certain sure, and he was the most powerful man in Ilsabard. She had no idea how free she could be with her opinions. But if she were as smart as he supposed, she would give over and play the eager new wife to please him.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I do, Solus,” she said suddenly, with a touch more confidence. That did not sound like a complete lie. She stepped closer to the bed, her hands going to the ribbon holding her cloak at the throat. She seemed to understand what he wanted now—well, anyone would, wouldn’t they?—and if she was still upset, she hid it behind a coquette’s smile.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Good,” he murmured. “Very good.” His member pulsed against his undergarments. His advisors would be clamoring for news of an heir in a month or two. <em>This is as good a way as any to get to know a mortal</em>. Emet-Selch almost smiled at the thought as he watched her undress. The concept of a lecher did not really exist in ancient Amaurot, but was that what he was? They were just mortals. <em>This is the only way I care to know most of them</em>.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Would you like to show me how grateful you are, my dear?” He put on the tone of one addressing a favorite pet. Amaurotines had had pets, once, and treated them well. “Show me how the empress loves her emperor. Properly, now.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Cassia lapped it up, of course. It took her only a moment or two to disrobe. In another moment he was lying down and she was straddling him, meeting his gaze between waves of black hair that curled over and past his shoulders. Her hands reached tentatively for his head. She looked determined.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“This is... what you want, my lord Solus?” His unadorned name did not rest easy on her tongue after all, it seemed. Ah well. “You want to know me this way first, carnally, as husband and wife?” She still sounded sad, but she knew better than to give him too much trouble.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Obviously,” he said. “Go on.” She threaded her fingers through his hair, clenching against his scalp. Positioning herself over his cock, she trailed her heat along it before finally settling on the tip. He jerked up as she pushed down, and he slid into her, snug and deep. “Yes.” He sighed. “Yes, that’s good.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Cassia began to move up and down on him, a slow, easy pace, and he encouraged her with small grunts. He was usually much rougher with consorts and serving maids and the like; she should be pleased. Her hands moved away from his head as she settled in, and she relaxed, at least on the outside. Still she seemed somewhat preoccupied, not wholly there. The room was darkening with the falling moon, but he could see her blinking down at him, eyes wide and blue. He could not tell what she was thinking. It bothered him.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Kiss me,” he said. Maybe she would feel a little more if he did. Hells, maybe <em>he</em> would. She kissed him, a bit sloppily at first, then with more pressure, her tongue dancing with his. They had never kissed before, not even at the wedding; Garlean weddings were very prim. There was an awkward clashing of teeth and noses before they found a rhythm, and that was really rather pleasant while it lasted. When he bit her lip, she gave a little whimper like a scared animal and wrenched her head back. He frowned; he had not even drawn blood. She did not try to kiss him again, though, and he did not demand it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The slow movements continued, Cassia undulating over him as the smile on her face melted away. The coquette was only a mask, it seemed, a mask to give her a shot of courage. She did not bother to change position, but she seemed content to do the lion’s share of the work. His hands moved to her breasts, her hips, her legs, a long, sinuous curve. Occasionally she gave some muted sighs. Mostly, she stayed quiet. Awfully hard to please, this girl who had wanted to marry a banker’s son. Was that who she was thinking of, while she rode him? Emet-Selch was not jealous of mortals, but the very thought of being jilted in this way was enough to ignite his anger. Despite himself his fingers dug into her sides, pressing harder and harder, urging her to quicken her pace. Was it ever worthwhile, attempting to know these fractured ones beyond the immediacy of their flesh?</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Before long, Emet-Selch noticed a small hiccoughing sound. It was coming from Cassia. She was crying, though she tried to hide it. It occurred to him that maybe he was hurting her, but he did not release his grip. At turns she bent down to bury her face in his neck, at turns she leaned back as she went about her languorous swaying, face tilted toward the ceiling. Once she looked away from him to gaze out the moonlit window, and for a few long seconds it seemed as if she yearned to fly out of it. To get away from here, from everything. She wept still.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Normally that faraway expression would have stirred Emet-Selch to annoyance, but he could relate to her longing. An ancient part of him could, he thought, though he could not remember ever crying. “There, there,” he said, and reached up to brush her tears away. His voice was not gentle, but these were the kindest words he could find. “You may come to love me yet, Cassia.” </span>
</p><p class="p2">She sniffled, and started to say something. It sounded petulant, even with him trying to sympathize.</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He pressed his thumb deeper into her cheek. “You can act like you do.” She was a smart girl. She would understand eventually.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Cassia found her smile then, and nodded, rocking back and forth with an enthusiasm she thought convincing.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“That’s it, my empress,” he said, though that only seemed to make her sadder. His hand remained on her cheek until they were finished, tears threading their way through his fingers. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. white</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“She will be all right, Your Radiance,” the chirurgeon said, dry-washing his hands. He was hatchet-faced, well past his middle years, and always stood with a slight hunch to his shoulders that belied his considerable height. “Birth is a difficult process, especially when it is a woman’s first time.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“That is a relief,” said Emet-Selch. The moaning and crying he had been hearing for hours had convinced him otherwise. He knew the process was long and hard for women, of course, but he had begun to think Cassia might die. Cassia, and mayhap also the child she had labored to bring into this world. His child. Bizarre thought, that.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Lamps flickered in the hallway outside of the royal bedchamber, sending shadows to dancing across the walls and floor. A draft was coming from somewhere nearby, probably a crack that the masons had not yet had time to mend, what with construction of the new garden and sentry towers ongoing. It was lonely and cool in the hall, a sharp contrast to the warmth and brightness of the royal bedchamber. But it was long-held custom in Garlemald that—chirurgeons aside—only women be allowed in the birthing room. This did not exempt the emperor. Emet-Selch was not sure he had ever been obliged to obey such strict custom before, but he endured it with a grudging good humor, remaining outside the room in a gilded velvet chair until summoned by the chirurgeon. By name he was Faustus kir Corvus, a former senior medicus retired from the imperial campaign, and trustworthy as far as mortals went.</span>
</p><p class="p2">“It is a shame we have no conjurers,” lamented Faustus, and Emet-Selch realized he was nervous. “Even one would make maternal death an impossibility, but as you well know, the Padjali have proven particularly stubborn when it comes to aiding foreigners, much less our burgeoning nation. At any rate, we are past the worst of it. In fact, I believe”—and at that moment there was a cry from within—joyful this time—a clatter of boots, the scrape of chair legs pushed back.</p><p class="p2">Faustus gave a curt nod, adjusting half-moon spectacles on his long nose. “I do prattle on. It is just as I suspected. After you, Your Radiance.” And with an ingratiating smile he opened the door for Emet-Selch, bidding him step inside.</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The room was lit with several stand-lamps, mirrored to provide more light, filling space with a happy golden glow. Perhaps it was made happier by the smiling faces surrounding the bed, the ladies-in-waiting and chambermaids who had become temporary nurses during the birth. Emet-Selch brushed past them in a brisk, unseeing manner, coming up next to the bed like a wraith. </span>
</p><p class="p2">The onlookers who had to move for him did so with a grace that looked deliberate, like they had wanted to move all along and had only just decided to when he entered the room. So many denizens of the palace, servants and otherwise, were used to him doing as he wished, when and where he wished, and if they were in the way of him, it was always preferable to make themselves scarce than risk his displeasure. At the moment, the close press of the room was trying his patience enough as it was. He could feel sweat beading on his brow already. There were too many people in here, entirely too many, and yet this was important—he needed to be alert and present. He swallowed, made himself focus on the scene in front of him.</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Light from the stand-lamps flickered fitfully over the bed and the two people in it. Two people, one of them a newborn. His. He blinked, shaking his head. It was hard to believe, almost. He could see a shimmering puddle of blood near the bottom of the bed, from the birthing, but most of it had been covered up by a few sheets some maid or other had pulled out of the laundress’s closet. His gaze slid from the blood to his wife, and the bundle in her arms.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Here he is,” said Cassia, rapturous. “Your son.” She held the babe up to Emet-Selch. Even with her sweaty face and disheveled hair, he thought he had never seen her so happy before. <em>I have never made her smile; I have never made her happy</em>. That did not sadden him, but it was jarring to think all the same.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The atmosphere in the room had him slightly off-kilter, like he was standing on a ship in the middle of a raging storm. Voices buzzed around him in a jolly thrum, people pressed against the bed to get a better look at the heir to the throne. <em>My heir. </em>It hit him then that it was a boy after all. That was a relief. That was part of his plan—rather a large part—accomplished. He realized he felt indebted to this babe who had been alive only moments, and he nearly chuckled aloud at the absurdity of it. <em>I am letting them get to me. </em></span>
</p><p class="p2">Mayhap because he did not know what else to do, he reached out and took the boy from Cassia, settling him in the crook of his arm. The ancient Amaurotines had used creation magicks to bring new life into the world; by comparison, the mortal method of reproducing was primitive, ghastly. Emet-Selch looked down at the small pink face peering up at him, eyes squinting, blanket bunched around his head like a cowl. Was this babe ghastly? Mortals were always ghastly, in their way, but that was utterly the wrong word here. Suddenly his strong feelings earlier did not seem so absurd. <em>He is shrouded like a saint, though newly born</em>, he thought. <em>In Amaurot, we wore hoods and robes. He is an old soul</em>.</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What shall we call him?” Cassia asked, and he was shaken from his ancient thoughts and returned to a full view of her face, beaming, uncannily happy. The maids around the bed murmured in interest, as if they had any sort of stake in this, his son’s miraculous life. What were they still doing here? The birthing was over, and their temporary duties with it. They should go back to their domestic labors, the lot of them. They looked like baby birds waiting to be fed, cutting eyes between him, his son, and his wife. Whispering amongst themselves. He wanted to spit in their faces. Chittering little insects.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Volesus,” said Emet-Selch quietly, over the heads of the maids and servants. As if they did not exist. For the briefest of moments an Amaurotine name had floated to the front of his mind, but it vanished like mist when Cassia’s voice yanked him back to the too-warm, too-crowded room. As it was, she blinked at him, her mouth working around the syllables of the name, punctuating them with her coldly crisp city accent. It was a strong Garlean name—not ideal, but it would not arouse undue suspicion as to its origins—and she wouldn’t understand, of course she wouldn’t. He did not have the patience to put up with her bleating. Not now. He needed to be out of here. Without warning he pushed past a maid behind him, opening a path in the press, and several grasping hands plucked at his cloak as he shoved servants aside. The murmurings turned confused; worried, even. One maid had the gall to stand in front of the door, arms crossed tightly, and he back-handed her so hard that she went sprawling into a gaping serving girl a yalm or two away.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Solus!”— came Cassia’s voice behind him, licking at his ear, sounding like her old self again. A high-pitched scream of anguish followed him as well; the wretched maid’s nose was broken, most like, but that was the furthest thing from his mind as he swept out of the room with the babe snugly in his arms. A simpering Faustus dogged him halfway down the long hallway leading to the nearest balcony, until a look of pure murder convinced the chirurgeon he was most assuredly required elsewhere. Emet-Selch needed to be away from these cloying, suffocating mortals for a few blessed bloody seconds. He needed the air, and the open sky. He needed to be alone.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The balcony gave a view out over the square in front of the palace, its white flagstones gleaming in the midday light. When Emet-Selch arrived at the smooth marble railing, he blinked to find the sun shining down on him; so it was midday already, was it? Dreadfully hard to keep track of time while cooped up in that dark hallway. He had thought it closer to midnight. He looked behind him again to make sure that no one was following, then gave a soul-weary sigh. It was quiet outside, with only the muffled faraway sound of the marketplace and the occasional cry of a raven to spoil the illusion of solitude. It was just him and the babe.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The boy was a warm weight against his elbow. He hadn’t so much as whimpered since Emet-Selch had spirited him out of that hot crowded room, with its greedy eyes and grubby hands. They had looked at his son with adoration on their faces, but they were still unworthy. He didn’t know how he knew it, but he did. Some truths struck with the force of lightning. Such and such a thing was important and valuable—divine, even—and there was no explaining why, because it just was. Maybe this was how the realm’s holy men felt in their churches, hands clasped before idols of their gods, knees aching and cold from hours against the vaulted stone floors.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Emet-Selch took a deep breath, and nearly choked on it when Volesus opened his eyes fully. They were a startling green, the color of Cassia’s eyes, but they shone with a jeweled beauty to put hers to shame. The babe took him in entire, his small mouth working absently as if forming words. It seemed, in that moment, that the babe saw all of him. Through him. What could he do under such an auspicious gaze but tell truth?</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“My name is Hades,” he said quietly, slowly, to the little face in the blanket. Gods, to finally say the words aloud! It was exhilarating. “I am an Amaurotine. This world is merely a shade of what it once was, but if I have my way, it will be grand again. And I...” He touched the boy’s nose with the tip of a finger, the gentlest gesture he could remember making for what seemed like an eternity. “I will let you share in it, little one. You alone will know my secret.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The babe cooed of a sudden, and smiled toothlessly. Emet-Selch felt a flaring of liquid warmth in his chest. Tenderness flooded him, and he snuggled the bundle closer to his heart. He felt <em>real; </em>the borders of his body <em>meant </em>something now—his flesh was not simply a veil for the soul that lurked within, his hands not simply a doll’s hands, or a mummer’s fancy—they were solid and whole and good. He had never felt that way about the mortal form before. Always, this time spent in mortal vessels was like unto a nightmare he had to survive in order to wake in the glory of an Ardor. A necessity he had to grit his teeth and bear to pull himself that much closer to Zodiark’s return. For once, though, he was <em>glad,</em> and it had nothing to do with the Calamity he was currently setting in motion. Nothing at all.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You know my true name,” he found himself saying. “You, and you alone.” Had he ever told any mortal the full, unadorned truth before? In any of the lives he had lived? When he was emperor, king, or architect? Even when he was advisor, or peasant, or—Zodiark forfend—a serving man? He did not think so.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I owe you something,” Emet-Selch said, and almost before he realized what he was doing, he had formed a strange weave of aether between the fingers of his free hand. He had seen it done before in Amaurot, a twisting of a familiar creation weave—one that bestowed good dreams upon whoever it touched. It was like unto a glowing, crystalline glyph that shone with all the colors of the rainbow. Emet-Selch positioned it over Volesus’s head and shook his hand gently, as if detaching a cobweb from his fingers. The web of aether sank through the air until it fell against Volesus’s soft pale curls, where it dissipated directly into the skin. The babe did not fuss; a construct of this sort, well-made, would not affect a living creature in any discernible way, at least when it was first laid. Volesus blinked knowingly up at Emet-Selch again after the aether had dissipated, then settled against the leather of his overcoat and closed his eyes.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Emet-Selch sighed, this time with his full chest, his heart flaring heat and life in his center. What had he actually done? He had not hurt the boy, that was certain, but the magicks he had channeled were almost unconscious, as if he’d known them since before he had been born. What he did know was that the magicks would guide Volesus to Amaurot, at least in his dreams. Now that was a wonderful thought, the most wonderful he’d had in ages. And so he stood with his son for a good long while on the balcony, watching the shadows grow longer and reveling in the feel of the new.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">After a time—too soon by his standards—Emet-Selch heard scuffling and throat-clearing behind him. He turned, and found a group of timid serving maids with eyes downcast and hands fiddling with apron strings. Ah. So Faustus or someone else too high-and-mighty to summon him themselves had instead sent this little scouting party to fetch him. He stared at the girls—not a broken nose among them; the serving maid who had blocked his way in the solar had wisely stayed back—and the blood drained from their faces. Finally, one of them—the oldest, he thought—plucked up the courage to speak. The lady empress was distraught, you see. She was crying, she was worried about the young lord. And about His Radiance, of course. All this expelled in a gust of nervous air that sent the words tumbling one over the other to the point of nigh incomprehensibility. When he did not immediately respond, she continued talking, this time cartwheeling into a less serious matter, but by now his anger had cooled a degree, and he actually did listen, blinking slowly through her chirping.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I will be along in due time,” he cut in, watching with some satisfaction as the girl clicked her teeth together and swallowed the lump in her throat. She had probably been hoping he would interrupt her meaningless babble, but it always felt good to put mortals in their place. “Pray inform the lady empress I grew nauseous from the crowding in the solar and simply wished to be outside for the nonce. She has no need to fret. Go on, now.” Solus Galvus had sometimes been given to nervousness and nigh panic in cramped spaces, so much so he could be driven to sick up; it had happened a few times during state meetings, much to Emet-Selch’s dismay, and the palace servants were well aware of the tendency. They would believe it in this case, and in fact, as the words left his mouth, Emet-Selch thought it at least partly truth. </span>
</p><p class="p2">He had given a command, but still the flock of girls stood there, eyes wide, until he made a dismissive gesture at them. One of the maids yelped, shaking the entire group, and they all scrambled to bob awkward curtsies before fleeing back down the corridor, heeled shoes clacking into the distance. Emet-Selch grunted, then returned to his contemplation of the horizon and the feel of the babe in his arms. Dealing with these shades was exhausting, draining in a leaden, uncompromising way. Apart from this new and exhilarating connection with his physical self, Volesus was the only real thing in the world. The babe breathed softly against the inside of his elbow. His long, even breaths suggested deep sleep, and dreams with it.</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He smiled to himself, as if refreshed by the very thought of his son at rest. A new duty had slotted into Emet-Selch’s duty to Zodiark. This was nothing like the simple mortal bond between father and son, but something stronger, more eternal. Like to unlike, poles attracting. Emet-Selch had cloaked himself in a mortal skin, but he was not mortal; he was not of this world. Volesus was mortal, there was no denying that, but circumstances were such that he had a window into Emet-Selch’s soul, and it suited Emet-Selch to let him stand at that window and look as long as he desired. </span>
</p><p class="p2"><em>Is this what I have been missing? The opportunity to share</em>? He asked this smallest and most essential of questions as he wound his way back to the solar, back to the living. But he was careful about it, precise and unhurried in his steps. It would not do to wake the babe, as he would be hungry and wanting the breast before long. Alas. How quickly the flesh reminded you it was flesh.</p><p class="p2">
  <em>Still, let him look. Let him know me. And most importantly, let him sleep, and let him dream.</em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. green</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>A chilly gust of wind ruffled Emet-Selch’s cloak as he walked out into the gardens of the imperial palace, red velvet and ermine trim flaring behind him. He had been cooped up with matters of administration all morning, and now that the hours of nigh-useless talking were over, he had a mind to take in the fresh air, away from thoughts of empire and conquest, away from thoughts of his own lofty goals, even.<br/>
<br/>
Here, snug between the two bell towers and the estate’s thick western wall, there was greenery aplenty—as much greenery as Garlemald could support, anyway, which was admittedly not a varied lot. With the help of the few Gridanian botanists in the empire, the palace gardens flourished about as well as they could. There were evergreen trees spaced at intervals, and spiky thorn bushes with waxy leaves and hard red berries lining the paths—poisonous, it was said; even one berry could kill a full-grown man—along with vines that Emet-Selch suspected needed a little magical coaxing to grow as they did, winding in picturesque patterns around the fluted columns that dotted the garden. Arches and cobblestone paths completed the image of an idyllic setting, fit to inspire a playwright’s pen. All in all, it was about as much green as you could see in all of Garlemald; perhaps in all of northern Ilsabard, for that matter.<br/>
<br/>
Emet-Selch made his way down the paths, stopping here and there to examine foliage for overgrowth or inspect chipping on a column. He had been a guiding hand in laying out the garden, and thus there was a touch of Amaurot to the place; the occasional curl to a column’s capital, the twisting spire on an arch. Only a touch, though—too many similarities, he knew, and he was bound to make himself lonely. There was no cure for that.<br/>
<br/>
The garden was also a living monument to the empire itself. That was largely his head mason’s doing, not his. Engravings on columns marked victories in the imperial campaign, and sometimes, in small clearings between two or more columns, a statue depicting a defeated general knelt before an approximation of Solus zos Galvus in full imperial regalia. Most of these set pieces showed the emperor extending an open palm to the enemy, a gesture of mercy in the language of Garlean statuary. <em>I never showed mercy to those generals</em>, he thought wryly as he passed a particularly egregious example, <em>I ordered most of them executed on the spot, or let them rot in the oubliettes.</em> Once defeated, he had no need for mortal enemies. The “history” on display here was as imperfect as mortal life itself. That amused him, so he let it stand.<br/>
<br/>
It was then that a strange smell on the wind dispersed his idle thoughts, put his back up. Something was burning, and it was close. Emet-Selch looked about for the source, but saw nothing burning in the immediate area. He tsked and trotted down the path, toward the center of the garden, when a great black cloud billowed up and over a stand of trees straight ahead. And then came a scream from the same direction. A boy’s scream. Familiar. Emet-Selch’s heart leapt into his mouth at the sound, and he found himself running straight across the garden, over and through neatly trimmed bushes, rocketing past columns and statues, forgoing the path altogether. To the seven hells with this labyrinthine monument to nothing! All amusement had fled, leaving only acrid resentment and the sharp bite of fear.  <br/>
<br/>
The billowing smoke marked his destination clear as a circle on a map, and it took him only a moment to reach it. Bursting out of the bushes, he came upon the center of the garden, a rounded picturesque plaza with a gazebo and benches among a stand of trees. Volesus yae Galvus cowered next to one of those marble benches beneath a tree aflame, his hands laced over his head in a desperate protective gesture. Fear seemed to have robbed him of the ability to run. Emet-Selch took a fleeting second to survey the scene. The fire was positively eating through the tree, and it would spread through the entire copse before he could summon a servant to douse it. On top of that, Volesus was terrified. Emet-Selch did not care overmuch for the garden, but that image stung something fierce.<br/>
<br/>
He had no choice; looking about to make sure he and Volesus were the only ones in sight, he raised a hand and wove Water and Wind. There was a sound like unto air rushing out before a slammed door, and then the fire was gone, leaving the tree a spindly crumpling mess. The acrid smell of smoke remained, but it was somewhat less than the overwhelming torrent it had been. <br/>
<br/>
Emet-Selch stood silent and still for a moment, his son breathing hard in front of him. It took Volesus some time to realize that the danger was gone. First his hands unlaced slowly from his head, then he blinked up at his father, then he rocked unsteadily to his feet. Branches once thick with leaves fell to the ground in a crackle, and the tree itself was nearly obscured in plump clouds of gray smoke that continued to billow upwards on the wind.<br/>
<br/>
“What happened here, pray?” Emet-Selch asked in as gentle a tone as he could muster.<br/>
<br/>
“I-I don’t know “ his son stammered, and he looked at Emet-Selch with great tears threatening to spill down his cheeks. “I’m not hurt. I was just sitting here reading, and then I stood to stretch after about a bell or two. I felt something... queer in one hand, in my chest, and somehow, I... I...” He pointed behind him at the burning ruin of the tree. “I did <em>that!</em>”<br/>
<br/>
Emet-Selch’s heart seemed to thud to a stop. No. Was it possible? He blinked at the tree, then back at his son with his teary eyes and trembling hands. There were no magitek firestarters around, so barring a very serendipitous blast of lightning—and one he had not noticed, besides!—Volesus was the likely source of the fire. Which meant only one thing. Had he used magic? Really and truly? He had assumed that impossible for full-blooded Garleans. He was not sure whether to be elated or disturbed. Nothing like this had ever happened before, not that he knew.<br/>
<br/>
<em>Well, I am the first Ascian who has deigned to sire mortal children</em>, he thought with some wryness. <em>Of course this is unprecedented.</em><br/>
<br/>
But he was the architect, the forger of paths, the great engineer. Emet-Selch, fear the new? By Zodiark, he wanted to laugh. Nay, he nigh wanted to throw up his hands and praise the twelve false gods. This was his area of expertise, his primary strength. He had built civilizations from the new and untried. This was nothing.<br/>
<br/>
Volesus was panting now, the tears trickling down his cheeks unbidden, his eyes locked on Emet-Selch’s smile. That must have looked odd to the boy, frightened as he was. <em>Oh, yes. I can play the comforting father. For him</em>. Emet-Selch’s face darkened somewhat, but his voice remained gentle.<br/>
<br/>
“My boy,” said Emet-Selch, “you are not alone.” He held up a hand, gesturing to a hilltop in the distance. “Observe.” He shifted the aether in his palm toward Fire. This would connect him to the lad more than anything ever could. He was going to teach a mortal one of his secrets, and for once, it was not completely for his benefit. He really did want to laugh.<br/>
<br/>
There was a distant sound of rushing wind, and suddenly a long plume of fire enveloped a tree on the faraway hilltop. It danced and flailed as it ate away at trunk and branches, climbing much more quickly than a natural wildfire would. Volesus gasped, his eyes riveted on the blaze. He seemed afraid to look directly at his father.<br/>
<br/>
“Th-that’s... that’s...”<br/>
<br/>
“Yes, lad. Magic.”<br/>
<br/>
“That’s you? You did that?”<br/>
<br/>
“That is me.” Emet-Selch could not suppress a smile. “Now, the common knowledge is that Garleans cannot wield magic. This is true, for the most part—“<br/>
<br/>
Volesus cut in, somewhere between excitement and terror. “Are you going to let the hill burn up? Please, Father, don’t let the hill burn.”<br/>
<br/>
There was that kind soul again. Emet-Selch would have grunted in frustration at the request, but this was his son, and he could naught but obey. He shifted the aether in his palm to a mixture of Water and Wind, dousing the blaze in an instant. The tree was left a twisted smoking lump, sending up billowing white smoke to join the clouds overhead. There was a thud to his right; Volesus had fallen squarely to the ground again, his hands flat against the cobblestones. He was no longer quivering, but he drew deep breaths, as if attempting to keep panic at bay.<br/>
<br/>
“As I was saying, most Garleans cannot manipulate aether, but a very few can. So few, in fact, that most believe the ability completely beyond the reach of our people. But I am one of those few, and you, my lad, have acquired the ability from me.” That was certainly not a lie, if it was not the whole truth. “Consider it a divine gift; it puts you further above the rabble. And I can teach you to wield it.”<br/>
<br/>
Volesus was silent for a few long seconds. He did not move to stand, however, even as Emet-Selch extended a hand for him to take. “Yes, I’d like to learn,” he said, swallowing, still looking at the hill, “but I don’t want to hurt anyone with it. I don’t want to make fire. Never again. I want to use it to help people. Can you use aether to do that? Can I do that?”<br/>
<br/>
Emet-Selch found himself at a loss for words. Volesus's request prodded at something within him. He had only ever used aether to destroy, to harm, to cause pain, at least in his capacity as Solus zos Galvus; he had no great use for its gentler applications.<br/>
<br/>
But he could try. For Volesus, he could try.<br/>
<br/>
“Yes,” he said. “You can.”<br/>
<br/>
Smiling, Volesus took his father’s hand and stood up. The happiness on his son’s face nigh bruised his heart. <em>How could I have had a part in making something so gentle? </em>Emet-Selch thought. <em>Zodiark take me, I am growing soft.<br/>
</em><br/>
For a while after, he sat with Volesus on the bench under the ruined tree. The boy had brought a book from the library, a heavy leather-bound thing with a jewel-studded title running down the wrinkled spine. Emet-Selch smiled when he saw the title: <em>A History of the Allagan Empire and its Inventions Great and Small</em>. So he was interested in history, was he? That was good. Leaders had to be well-versed in history if they were to guide their own nations wisely and avoid the mistakes of the past.<br/>
<br/>
Volesus‘s head bobbed excitedly over the book, his finger tracing words on the crackling vellum pages, alighting on penciled images of machines and devices Emet-Selch had overseen construction of himself centuries and centuries ago as the guiding light of the now-famous, now-nearly-lost-to-memory Allagan Empire.<br/>
<br/>
When he was done reciting a favorite passage aloud, Volesus pursed his lips and looked up thoughtfully at Emet-Selch.<br/>
<br/>
“Father, now that we have this moment, I’d like to... speak freely. More freely than I have in the past, anyway,” he said with some difficulty. Emet-Selch cocked his head in interest. Certainly they two had shared something important this day, and he was more than open to entertaining the boy further. ”I know you want me to be a legatus in your army, but I think I should like to be a scholar of ancient history much better. Would you let me do that? I-I would work hard. I would learn new things, a great many things. I would take care of the library here, and make it even grander than it already is. I would make you and mother proud. I promise.”<br/>
<br/>
His head shone golden in the light filtering through the burnt branches of the tree above, his hair brushing his shoulders in gentle curls, his eyes flashing like polished emeralds at the simple notion of managing the palace library. Something in Emet-Selch’s chest gave a pang at the modesty behind Volesus’s words, and he marveled that the arcane machinations of biology—not creation magicks—could produce a thing so beautiful as his son.<br/>
<br/>
He had been imagining Volesus as a strong leader of men, but his desire to heal, his desire to learn... somehow, those desires made a great deal of sense when he considered the entirety of the boy's soul. It was a color unlike any he had seen in a mortal, and that prodding from before had at last uncovered an ancient part of Emet-Selch, a part he'd thought buried under the countless years since the Sundering. When he had been known as Hades, he had been a noted scholar, and his gift in the sight had given him a flair for healing as well. Of course, he had not performed healing in millennia, and he doubted he could heal more than a bruise in his current state.<br/>
<br/>
Still, it was strange. Volesus was tall for his age, with broad shoulders that spoke of lean, hard muscle in the future. He would be strong and imposing when he reached his majority, mayhap more imposing than Emet-Selch himself. He looked the part of a soldier, and yet he had all the grace and delicacy of a scholar of eld. Of the Hades of eld.<br/>
<br/>
<em>Is he following me through the ages</em>? he asked himself, glancing at the open book in Volesus’s lap. <em>Could he know who I am? Is he that wise? I wonder</em>.<br/>
<br/>
There was a form, a call-and-response when Amaurotines used creation magicks to delight youths gathered in the plazas and squares of Amaurot. The younglings would call out concepts they wanted to see—a bird made all of ice, a horse with six legs, an animate ball of fluff that tumbled in joyful arcs through the air—and the sorcerers would smile and raise their hands and say: <em>For you, the world</em>.<br/>
<br/>
“For you, the world,” said Emet-Selch, touching Volesus lightly on the cheek. For a wonder, there was not a trace of irony in his voice. Volesus answered with a smile that put the sun to shame.<br/>
<br/>
"And your... your..." His voice dropped to a playful whisper. "Your magicks. You really can teach me how to heal?" His excitement was palpable.<br/>
<br/>
"Yes, lad. But not right now. Not out here. It is a difficult ability to control at first, as you well know. We will have to practice where no one else can see; we will go to some meadow on the estates, on the pretext that we are riding or some such. And you will have to be secretive about it. No telling your friends, or Augusta, or anyone else. Not even your mother. Do you understand me?"<br/>
<br/>
Volesus met his eyes and nodded firmly. The boy was smart. He knew when his father was being deadly serious, especially when it came to his own safety and wellbeing. He would keep the secret.<br/>
<br/>
"Volesus yae Galvus, the chirurgeon. And historian." He giggled. "And I suppose I'll be emperor one day too. A strange emperor I'll make, with such a mix of skills and abilities."<br/>
<br/>
Emet-Selch chuckled and mussed the boy’s hair. A lad of ten and four. Extraordinary. "You shall be a fine emperor. The finest Garlemald has ever known." Surprising how easy that was to say, when he was emperor at present. It was then that another thought came to him, and he was nigh blindsided by what it might mean. "Have you, by chance, been having any strange dreams lately?"<br/>
<br/>
Volesus pursed his lips. “I...” He put a finger in his book and closed the cover on it. His green eyes, so like Cassia’s, took on a thoughtful cast. “How did you know?”<br/>
<br/>
Emet-Selch’s heart swelled. “Call it a father’s intuition.” It could not be mere coincidence. <em>Those magicks I cast the day he was born...</em><br/>
<br/>
“Yes, I have.” Volesus hesitated before going on, but his voice rose in glee the longer he spoke. “Dreams of a city, misty with fog, but I know it’s beautiful. The spires are all twisted, dark with silvery edges. There are cobblestone paths and fountains and creatures I’ve never seen before. Sometimes I see... people. At least, I think they’re people. They’re all hooded and so, so tall, but I never get a good look at them. I seem to fly through the city every time I go there.” He shook his head. “Well, I don’t really ‘go there,’ I suppose. But it feels so real. And... not long after I started having those dreams...” He glanced meaningfully to the tree behind him.<br/>
<br/>
Emet-Selch needed no further confirmation. It was difficult to keep the eagerness from his voice. “That must have something to do with it. We can discuss this further when we have your first lesson. Mayhap this happens to all Garleans who touch aether for the first time. It happened to me, I believe.”<br/>
<br/>
The spell had worked. Of course, Emet-Selch had had no idea when it would take effect when he first cast it so long ago. Apparently the magicks had decided to simmer for a good many years, taking their time to come to fruition. No matter. It had all been worth it for this.<br/>
<br/>
“It happened to you, too?” Volesus’s eyes were wide, and he was struggling to keep his voice low. “By the gods, Father, to think that you’ve been sitting on this secret for so long. How ever did you keep it to yourself?”<br/>
<br/>
Emet-Selch’s smile was dark this time. “I am quite adept at keeping secrets.” <em>The only other mortals who know what I can do are dead.</em><br/>
<br/>
There was a sudden snap from above. Craning his neck, Emet-Selch saw Cassia standing at a closed window on the walkway that passed over the garden. She turned away with a disgusted expression as soon as she noticed him looking up. He frowned. How long had she been watching them? Had she seen the fire? Had she been able to catch anything he’d said to Volesus? If she had, he would have to deal with it later. He sighed in exasperation. There was certainly no love lost with his wife. She was spying on him again, most like. When she was not simpering, or waiting on him meekly, or cringing beneath him in bed, she was spying, and doing a poor job of it too.<br/>
<br/>
Volesus had not noticed the noise. “I suppose you must be, and for good reason,” he said with a nod. “Let us turn our thoughts to this matter another day. I am quite looking forward to my first lesson, though." His eyes lit up in true wonder. "But for now, I have another section that I simply adore, if you don’t mind too terribly...”<br/>
<br/>
Emet-Selch turned back to Volesus. He was engrossed in the book again, and reciting another favorite passage aloud. Emet-Selch settled in to listen. This boy... Zodiark, but this one mortal was almost enough to make him want to believe in the lot of them. He blinked, and Cassia was forgotten.<br/>
<br/>
***<br/>
<br/>
Cassia yae Galvus turned away from the window looking out over the palace gardens. Her mouth twisted into a sour line. When Solus wasn’t tormenting her with quiet threats or ignoring her outright, he was stealing her son from her. He was probably turning the boy against her now, telling him vile lies about her moral rectitude and the gods knew what else. Would the man stop at nothing to make her life a hell that she had no choice but to smile and nod through? Volesus was her one treasure in this godsforsaken viper den, and she would lose him one day, just like she had lost everything else.<br/>
<br/>
How excited she had been the night she was set to wed Solus zos Galvus! She’d had only a short few days to cry over her broken engagement, but she reasoned that Marius would understand in time. He was from a prosperous family, too, and he knew the importance of political marriages. The upper classes married for advantage, not love, and that was that. Besides, the new emperor was such a handsome man, somewhat exotic for a Garlean, with his dark golden eyes and bold nose. She had found him so dashing in his wedding attire, and so charming at dinner that night.<br/>
<br/>
How excited she had been, and how foolish. She walked slowly down the corridor, her plush slippers keeping the cold floor tiles from chilling her feet. The whole palace was cold and heavy, the frost of northern Ilsabard suffused with Solus's essence. He followed her everywhere. But she did not believe the wild rumors at court that he was a demon from the seven hells. That was simply superfluous. Unnecessary. Her marriage had shown her well enough that men did not have to be demons to do evil.<br/>
<br/>
She passed a large oil painting of the emperor and his family and slowed, suppressing a grimace as her eyes passed over Solus’s firm expression. Here he was again. The man was a monster, but he loved their son for true. For the sake of that love, she would keep up appearances in public, if nowhere else. When Volesus had been born, she thought perhaps things could be sweet and right and good as she had imagined in her girlish daydreams, but that had been nothing but another silly flight of fancy. She should have known there was no happiness to be had here. Not for her. Not ever.<br/>
<br/>
The painting showed Cassia with a small smile on her face, one hand on the emperor’s waist, the other touching Volesus lightly on the shoulder. Every time she saw it, she wanted to laugh until she cried. The empress in the painting looked playful, like she had a secret she was dying to tell. <em>Who is this woman with her self-satisfied smile</em>? Cassia wondered. She remembered sitting for that painting. She had not smiled once. <em>T</em><em>here are no secrets here. Only a long hallway with pain and cruelty behind every door</em>.<br/>
<br/>
There were no secrets, because Solus would allow her none. She was with child again. The knowledge made her want to break down, and he would have to know eventually. In truth, she had been tempted to go to a back alley chirurgeon when she had missed her blood twice in a row, but for no amount of gil would a Garlean chirurgeon stay quiet about taking the empress as a client. Besides, terminating a pregnancy in her position would constitute treason to the empire, and she had no reason to believe Solus would defend her against that charge. He could be done with her and remarry easily enough.<br/>
<br/>
So she would bear this child, but never again. She would take herbs to prevent any more of his ilk from coming into the world. She was getting into her early middle years, and Faustus had told her that was when women began to have trouble conceiving; if Solus suspected she was cleansing herself, she would have him speak to the chirurgeon. He was not a stupid man, but hopefully that would be enough to satisfy any burgeoning curiosity on his end.<br/>
<br/>
It was all so wretchedly unfair. She knew the emperor was unfaithful to her, but he did not whore as excessively as a debauched king in the stories, not enough to have their marriage annulled. There was no way out. He could get away with so much, and she had to grit her teeth and bear it like a beast of burden. A farm animal to be ridden and bred and left to chew her cud after. And she was the empress! The most famous woman in the empire! Ha! What a fine, pretty life it was!<br/>
<br/>
Cassia continued to make her way to her private rooms, clutching at her belly and holding back hot tears. <em>I need do this only once more, and then I can be done with it</em>. Oh, it hurt so. Solus’s vile shadow had stretched so long that she had begun to despise her unborn child. Was there nothing he could not corrupt? Was there nothing he could not ruin?<br/>
<br/>
When she reached her rooms, she collapsed into bed beneath another sumptuous portrait of the emperor, his eyes full of a thoughtful, penetrating malice. She wept there, under the painting’s gaze, until sleep finally took her.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. black</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This chapter contains an instance of rape/non-consensual sex.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There was no magic the day Titus was born.</p><p>When the birthing pains wracked Cassia for the second time, Emet-Selch did not take up a post outside her solar like a guard on duty. Garlemald fair buzzed; he was preoccupied with reports of minor rebellions to the north and west, and a potential Eorzean campaign, and myriad other things, and thus he locked himself away as the maids turned down the covers of the birthing bed down the hall. As before, only the head chirurgeon and the estate’s female servants were allowed in the birthing solar. The hours passed, and Faustus popped his head into Emet-Selch’s chambers at intervals to update the emperor on his wife’s progress. He responded with short grunts and nods, occasionally looking up to make eye contact with the fastidious medicus so that he knew he was listening. Somewhat, anyway. The process seemed to take much longer this time, and he had such a great deal to manage in the name of the empire. </p><p>Half a day later—less than that, mayhap, he was not sure—the child was born, and Faustus came trundling in sweaty-faced and wringing his hands to announce that the emperor was the proud father of a second son. Wonderful to have the royal line so well secured, don’t you know! He assured the emperor that Cassia was doing about as well as could be expected, and that the babe had taken quickly to the breast. Emet-Selch gave a perfunctory nod and waved him away. He was looking forward to his bed. There would be all the time in the world to fawn over the child, but only so many hours in which he could rest. The empire needed him. The star needed him, though the majority of its denizens were not aware of that fact. His family could get on quite well in his absence. </p><p>When he did finally lay eyes on the boy, he found himself disappointed. There was more of Solus than of Cassia writ in the babe’s features. He had a shock of dark hair and steely gray eyes staring out from a pinched, wrinkled face. He looked angry at having been born—and quite right, too, Emet-Selch supposed—but he did not find the resemblance endearing. To be further reminded of the mortal body that fettered his spirit in rusty chains was repellant. He had let his wife name the child, busy as he was over maps and planning for the future of the imperial campaign. Titus, he was to be called, after one of Cassia’s ancestors on her father’s side. A decorated soldier or some such. That was fine and fitting for a second son, as much as Emet-Selch cared about such things. But Volesus, unlike his unimpressed father, was doting and affectionate to the boy, spiriting the bundle about the palace a mere few days after the birth. </p><p>“You have a twin, Father,” Volesus laughed on one of his visits, and Emet-Selch had to suppress a grimace over his papers. <em>Why was there no magic this time</em>? he wondered, and peered into the blankets as Volesus opened them with a smile. <em>Why was there no spark, no scintillating bond with this child</em>? Mayhap Volesus’s sun shone so bright it obscured all other stars. Whatever it had been, it was a mortal foible he had indulged once and only once. He knew very well he was a mummer wearing the skin of a feral beast, and oh, how it chafed. </p><p><em>No. I am a fool in motley, more like</em>.</p><p>He took in Titus’s watery eyes. Studied his tiny grasping hands. <em>Why bring me into the world</em>? he seemed to ask. <em>Why curse me with life</em>? Good questions both. He found he felt bad for the child, felt a twinge of guilt for having had a hand in creating him. </p><p>The feeling was abrupt and fleeting as a dying wind. <em>I will not let you trick me into love</em>, Emet-Selch thought. <em>I</em><em> may have stumbled once, but not again. Never again.</em></p><p>“Take him away, Volesus,” Emet-Selch murmured, turning to his work. “He will be hungry soon.” He picked up his quill and made a dismissive gesture with his free hand. Volesus replaced the blankets around the babe’s face, eyes confused. He was used to his father’s moods when it came to business. He should have expected this. </p><p>“Father, I—“</p><p>Emet-Selch cut in. “If this is about your lessons, they will take place the same as they always do. The next will be at the sixth evening bell, in the meadow with Master O-Muro-Sen. The babe will not disrupt our schedule, of that I assure you.” The boy was always so impatient about his lessons, and he was quite fond of the Padjali conjurer Emet-Selch had managed to procure through agents in Gridania. Of course, it was for the best that Volesus remain unaware that the Padjal was not exactly serving the imperial court willingly. When it came to the running of the empire, there were a great many things it was better for Volesus not to know. </p><p>Volesus stood there, working his mouth as if to say something else. A look of understanding seemed to cross his face. For a moment, Emet-Selch suspected he had not meant to discuss his lessons at all, but the feeling was gone as quickly as it had come. </p><p>Finally, Volesus said, “Very well, Your Radiance,” and made for the carved oaken doors leading to the palace’s main corridor. He had to cradle Titus carefully in the crook of his arm to push against one heavy door, and it closed with a solid thud behind him. The sound echoed with finality in the solar. The room felt emptier of a sudden, deprived of life and warmth. </p><p>Emet-Selch blanched at his son’s tone, but set quill to parchment and began checking figures. The lad was more than halfway to his sixteenth summer, and mortal children could be prickly with their parents at that age. Still, a thought caught on the edge of his mind.<em> How gently he carried the babe. How gently he smiled at him</em>. Emet-Selch had not yet held Titus himself. He shifted in his chair. <em>I have higher duties than they will ever know. More important things to do than ape the adoring father. I must not forget that</em>. He moved to the next row of figures. </p><p>That night, he slipped into bed next to an already sleeping Cassia. He closed his eyes, worn down by the vagaries of the day: paperwork and military logistics and doubts over his son’s behavior. What was there to be done? Mortals would be mortals, even those he held in higher regard. A handful of his legati. Some few of the senators, those with a semblance of backbone. And Volesus. </p><p>He turned over, facing away from Cassia, toward the windows overlooking the western gardens. A gentle breeze tugged at the curtains; it was another cool night in Garlemald. The cool helped him think. Helped him sleep. </p><p>Most nights.</p><p><em>Volesus is the only one of us who will amount to anything</em>, he thought. That calmed him. <em>He will learn healing magic. He is already doing so well, learning so much. And he will be a historian. He will not destroy and ruin. No, he will leave something good behind. And mayhap... that will mean I... </em></p><p>A small smile was forming on his face. His soul lay heavy, and a heavy soul was good for sleep. Sleep’s waiting arms caught him, and he dreamed. </p><p>The dreams of Ancients were slippery, improbable things. Unsundered Ancients seldom dreamed in their mortal forms, but those who still survived were sometimes blessed by what they called true dreams. </p><p>Dreams of Zodiark. </p><p>There were nights, rare and wonderful, when Emet-Selch fell into a deep purple sleep, where he met Zodiark, and Zodiark deigned to speak with him. Tonight was one such night. </p><p>Zodiark was there, in full view and yet glimpsed out of the corner of the eye, imperceivable and yet all around. Straight angled and crooked. He was There, but he was not... there. He was a great Something, to wriggle around the brain, settle between the cracks, take over. He had tempered Emet-Selch long ago, not that he remembered. One did not remember being born. </p><p>Emet-Selch adored Him. He did not remember falling asleep, or dreaming. He forgot who he was in the purple dream, forgot his family, forgot he was emperor. He was not even There to forget, really; he was One with Zodiark, with that great enveloping Something that was all. </p><p>When Zodiark spoke, the words rippled through him like a wave breaking his very existence apart. He broke several times, and was reconstituted. There was no pain. He was elated, disgusted, horrified in turn, and all at once. Zodiark danced before his eyes as every being he had ever known, until finally He coalesced into a gargantuan puckered crystal, dripping royal purple. Is that where Emet-Selch had gotten the idea for the purple imperial robes? The sick ecstasy overtook him again, and he... slithered forward, displaced space to get ever closer. </p><p>Zodiark reached out with His hand, settled around and against Emet-Selch, and probed. Felt out his intentions. Measured his devotion.</p><p><em>Thou moveth ever closer to bringing Me back</em>. The Words of Zodiark shattered against him, but this time he did not break. </p><p>Tears would have leapt to Emet-Selch’s eyes, if he had eyes. Or a face. <em>Yes, my lord. We are so close, ever so close. And we will not fail</em>.</p><p>When Zodiark deigned to touch you, you let Him do it. You did not tremble. You did not back away. You faced straight ahead and firmed your mind and bared your soul.</p><p>A licking at the core, a maddening caress. All-commanding, agonizing, icily arousing. Not in the way of the fleshly passions, but intensely captivating, the only thing in the world you needed. The only thing in the world that existed. You became one singular point under His gaze. </p><p>Emet-Selch fought against drowning in it. As much as he loved Zodiark and longed to join Him in bliss, he knew he must keep himself <em>here</em>—for now, at least, until their goals were accomplished. But even so, there had been a handful of times—oh, hells!—where he had almost fallen; yes, almost fallen deep and long and far into that abyssal throat, and been swallowed whole. Almost. In that nothing-space, the ringing pulsing eternity of Zodiark’s presence, he knew who he was. <em>Even we Ascians are as dumb wet lumps before Him. We are mortals, yes; to Him we are, that is how he sees us. So ugly and frail. </em>Gray tendrils leapt from the throat of the all-black, all-seeing lord, and if they snapped around your brain, you were as nothing, as everything; you joined the humming, vibrating mass. </p><p>Emet-Selch knew if that happened, Zodiark would See him—truly See him—and he would be obliterated, seared from every plane of existence. And how beautiful, how right that would be! But not yet. Not yet. </p><p>In His grasp, Emet-Selch did his best to relay what he knew to the all-consuming essence. Zodiark could take what information He wished regardless of what Emet-Selch wanted, of course, but deference was due in the presence of one’s god. The state of the imperial campaign, renovation projects in and around Garlemald, the general attitude of the various nations as reported by Garlean spies. The world was a pile of dry kindling waiting for a spark, and since time immemorial, Emet-Selch and his fellows had poured the oil and struck the tinder. He estimated they were years from another Rejoining; at most, a few decades. When the Garlean Empire had spread as far as it could, burning and routing and crushing its way through the Eorzean city-states and beyond, the Ardor would truly be upon them. That made Emet-Selch happier than anything ever could. Ephemeral pleasures? His family? Volesus? No. They were nothing. They had always been nothing, compared to this. </p><p>Zodiark seemed... content with the knowledge he had imparted. It was nigh impossible to put a word to the deity’s “feelings”—if feelings they were—but His intentions could be felt like an earthquake’s aftershocks, rumbling through Emet-Selch’s being, his very soul. They seemed to crack the foundations of existence itself. </p><p>An eternity passed. An eternity and a half. When Zodiark was done with him, He released Emet-Selch, drifting back into His off-space, a negative reflection of the physical realm. Crooked angles knocked back into place as Zodiark moved; light was displaced—what light? how could that be, here?—and shadows flooded Emet-Selch’s vision once again. He was left drained, empty. The absence of Zodiark was like a blizzard sweeping in to fill a cabin once warmed by a blazing fireplace. Driving snows battered Emet-Selch’s insides, chilling him to the core. He curled up, teeth chattering, arms closing around nothing. He folded in, in, in on himself, until he seemed to become a thin line of white light—and then he winked out of existence. </p><p>He woke with a start, heaving a deep, gulping breath as if he had been on the verge of a scream and had only just been able to swallow it. Sweat clung to his forehead and chest. The room was cool and dark but for scant moonlight and a candle flickering fitfully behind glass on the reading desk. Feeling him move, Cassia stirred. “Solus?” she murmured, her voice thick with sleep. </p><p>He grunted. “It is nothing,” he said, wiping at the sweat trickling down his neck. It was always like this, with the dreams of Zodiark—the shock of coming back was enough to rouse one from even the deepest slumber. And he was certainly roused—he found, with some surprise, that he was hard in his smallclothes. He shivered. Such meetings brought about strange side effects in the physical world. But he could not remember anything like this ever occurring before. </p><p>Emet-Selch heard Cassia make a sound of assent, then snuggle down into the plump pillows. For the briefest moment he looked at her with something like affection fuzzy in the back of his head. Her hair was mussed, spread out in a long tangle across the sheets. She was the image of a drowned woman, face turned away, arms and legs askew. He could almost believe she was dead, lying there like that. <em>Do I not already? These mortals are only half-alive as it is</em>. He smiled to himself. A cruel way to see the matter, but it was nothing he had never considered before. No, affection was not in it. It was pity. Only pity for these sorry, broken creatures, and a mad burning jealousy that they were now the stewards of this star. How ugly, and how <em>hideously </em>unfair.  Still, they were useful. She was sometimes useful. And as hard and aching as he currently was, she could be useful now. He could mount her, or he could have her use her mouth, and then he would be sated, and he could fall back into restful, dreamless sleep. It mattered not if she was dead or alive. </p><p>He cocked his head. Shook it. The affection seemed to wane. No, she would not want to please him now, not so soon after birthing Titus, not this late at night. But the frenzy of what he had just experienced was upon him, and it lit up his nerves like firecrackers fizzling to eruption. </p><p>Hand to her shoulder, Emet-Selch flipped her over and pressed her into the bed. “Wh—“ she began, but before she could say aught else, he had climbed on top of her and spread her legs. She did not whimper or shriek. He pulled her smallclothes down and pushed into her, his length sliding past her lips, pulsing against her walls. She was far from ready to take him, and likely still raw inside, but he cared not. He took a moment to grow accustomed to being enveloped by her again before pushing further.  He began moving—slowly at first, then faster and faster as memories of the dream came flooding back in all their shadowed ecstasy. Zodiark taking knowledge from him, ripping it from his mind whether he meant to offer it freely or not. Yes, that—that was pure joy, bliss incarnate. Pleasure and pain grew in him, and after a few ragged snaps of his hips, sooner than he expected, he emptied himself with a shudder. He felt limber, elastic; holding himself up on his elbows, he exhaled, finally feeling as if he had come back to this world. </p><p>Cassia said nothing underneath him, gave no indication of either anger or pleasure; just took his thrusts with a tight expression and obsidian eyes. She looked much as she had on their wedding night, only she was leaner in the face now, harder in aspect. Something had changed in her after all these years. <em>Have I changed</em>? Emet-Selch thought idly as he rolled off of her, relishing the feel of cool satin against his back. <em>If anything worked to change  me, it was Volesus. Yes, yes; I quite think he did</em>. For the better, though? Freed from his grasp, Cassia blinked owlishly at him. She did not make to immediately turn away as she usually did, and Emet-Selch smirked. <em>Oh, what does it matter? She is probably planning to kill me or some such nonsense. Mortals do not change, not truly. And neither do I</em>. </p><p>He lay there for a few stretched moments, and from the sprinkling of moonlight through the window, he could see Cassia’s eyes still locked on his face. Despite everything, a shiver swept down his spine. Those jeweled eyes cried no tears. They regarded him with cold fury, like a clear bottomless lake. He stared back, breathing slowly, collecting himself. He felt compelled to do it for some reason. He would not tear his gaze away before she did. </p><p><em>She does not shake me. No mortal shakes me</em>. </p><p>“What are you staring at?” he said in a huff. “If you mean to kill me, take your chance. I know you’ve wanted to for years.” He was agitated, angry. How dare she try him now? “Have you a knife hidden somewhere? Go ahead. Take it out. <em>Try." </em>He smiled when she only blinked back at him, slow and dumb as a caged bird. “I knew it. Too craven by half. You cower and simper to my face, then glare daggers at my back. But in the end, you will do nothing. You simply chirp like the stupid canary you are.” Once, long ago, he had thought to try kindness with this one. What a lark! He was like to cry from laughter at the very idea. But she had the gall to frown and sulk and mope about the palace, her displeasure on display for all to see, and so in rather short order he had done away with the overtures to kindness. If she had ever deserved them in the first place. </p><p>Cassia stayed silent and blinking for a moment. Her face was as blank as a face could be. Then she shifted, began to turn over in the bed. “One day,” she said softly as the sheets whispered under her. “One day you will lower your guard. You will make a mistake. And that is when you will die.” </p><p>That took him aback. He did not know what to say. What <em>could</em> he say to such idiotic prattle? It only served to make her feel better, bigger than she was. Still, death... it was something he did not fear. It was something he never expected to fully experience. Why fear something you never thought would happen to you? </p><p>“Mayhap death will be welcome, when it comes,” he found himself saying. His voice sounded dry in the cool dark room. “Death is rest. And rest... is good and natural.” </p><p>Cassia made no reply. Emet-Selch stared a few seconds longer at the blanket shrouding her drowned form, its slow rise and fall suggesting deep sleep. Already. He thought of barking to wake her up, to snap some sense into her after her outburst. The woman was spineless, but she had the audacity to yap about death in a bid to unsettle him. She herself would be dead within forty years—if that—and she spoke as if the prospect did not frighten her at all. </p><p>In forty years, he would still be here. If not in this body, then in some other capacity. Serving his lord. Striving to make the world whole. Endeavoring to bring his brothers back from the beyond. That was worth it, was it not? </p><p>Of course it was. The question made no sense. He was simply tired. He needed rest. </p><p>In the end, Emet-Selch did not wake Cassia. In the end, he turned over, settled under the sheets, and waited for sleep to take him back. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. white and red</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Snow was coming down in light flurries when Emet-Selch closed the back door of the royal palace behind him. He left by a corridor near the chocobo stables, an exit used mainly by groomsmen and stable hands, one hardly trafficked now that magitek vehicles were so commonplace. He was bundled in his winter garb, black hooded cloak with fur trim over his regalia and fine ermine gloves snugged over his hands. Even when he was attempting to keep a low profile, he strived to look the part. </p><p><em>Look the part. Look the part, always</em>. He did take some pride in playing mortal well enough to fool the masses, for all that it forced bile into his mouth. There were some perks to being mortal during this age, though. Some few, but good. </p><p>The wind blew out Emet-Selch’s cloak behind him, and he endeavored to keep enough of it swept forward to shield the black leather case from the snow as it began to drive down in heavier and heavier sheets. A blizzard was coming for Garlemald, and no mistake. Emet-Selch hoped to be inside again before it made a blank canvas of the city, and fortunately, it was not far to his destination. </p><p>Hardly anyone was out this late at night anyhow. He saw a few stragglers under awnings made of wood and thatch already buckling under the heaping snow, and a slat-ribbed dog or two, but the streets were largely empty. He tramped through the cold and wet as the storm picked up, leaving muddy patches behind, doing his best to keep the case underneath his cloak. He took twisting turns through the most unlikely of alleyways, squeezing between buildings when space allowed. This was to shake off anyone who might be following him, foolhardy decision though that was. The greater part of Garlemald’s city center had been constructed under his discerning eye. He had long ago memorized its labythrinthine mass of alleyways and side streets, its spindly fingers of dead-ends and magitek cart paths. Complex as it was, it was his creation, and what he created he knew well. A few more moments of walking, and he came out of an alley between a grocer and a scrap dealer. Just like that, he had reached the largest thoroughfare in the city. </p><p>The opera house loomed ahead, prominent even in the gray of the misting snow. It was a tall, sharp building, done in grand style, with elegant tracings and celestial figures decorating its edges. Three great spires poked into the sky’s maw, and Emet-Selch started at a sudden bang and a crackle of blue light around one of the spire’s metallic tips, A coming blizzard, and lightning. What a combination. He quickened his steps toward the building, a gust of wind cutting through his cloak like an icy knife. </p><p>It took only seconds to reach the large oak doors on the western side of the opera house. This was an entrance used mainly by theater staff, both performers and caretakers. Emet-Selch opened the leftmost door, ring pull squeaking in protest. Despite his best efforts a swirl of snow came in after him, and he kicked his boots against the uneven stone floor to disperse it. Bracketed torches and mirrored stand lamps lined this back hallway at regular intervals, barely visible with the doors closed. He lit the torches and lamps in an instant with Fire aether, and they flared to life, patient and welcoming. He allowed himself a smile. He knew the place, as it knew him. It received him with the warmth and familiarity of a good friend, one who knew his secrets and kept them jealously. </p><p>This particular hallway led behind the stage, ending in an area where performers rehearsed before shows. Now, during the off-season, it was uncustomarily dusty, tables and chairs and props sitting where they had last been left weeks ago. Emet-Selch made for a rickety wooden table near a vase holding a clutch of mock swords and spears. The table’s surface showed one conspicuous rectangular gap in the dust, like a wink in his direction—a sign he was expected. He placed the violin case in the gap of dust, took off his gloves, and opened it. The instrument inside was beautiful, with softly delicate curves, made from old-growth Gridanian maple. It shone against the muted red velvet of the case, light from a nearby stand lamp rippling like water across the fine grooves in the wood. </p><p><em>My secret lover and I, alone in the opera house</em>. No one—not even the empress, not even his sons—knew how often he came here, to play and hear the notes echo back to him from lonely walls. It was exhilarating, he thought, to be the only thing moving in a place that was normally so alive with the traffic of bodies and the certainty of sound. <em>You exist</em>, the hall seemed to say, <em>I see you</em>, and that was hard to remember sometimes, when he felt himself lost in matters petty and mortal. He should not have forgotten, of course; he was stone, alien and immovable, as different from mortal man as the foundations of this very building. </p><p>He plucked up the bow and spread rosin down it in long sweeps. The last time he had come here had been... oh, two weeks or so ago, he thought. The place was an escape for him, a second home, almost. Cassia had launched into another of her tempestuous rants this morning, and he had tried to placate her to no avail. Volesus had stood at the doorway, thinking himself hidden, holding Titus’s hand. The younger boy was just now beginning to talk. He would be old enough to ride soon, old enough to learn how the son of an emperor needed to behave. But that was business to be dealt with later, when he firmly affixed the mummer’s mask once more. This spare hour in the opera house was his, and his alone. </p><p>Emet-Selch returned the cube of rosin to its small pocket inside the case and pulled out the violin itself. He handled it with the care one usually reserved for children and other things dainty and breakable; it was as light and lovely as a cloud in his hands. After affixing the shoulder rest—of carbon fiber make, a Garlean original—he placed the instrument under his chin and began stroking out a few scales in preparation. He had a mind to play for a good long while tonight, and he needed to limber up beforehand. </p><p>Emet-Selch considered himself rather a natural on the violin. He had learned the instrument thousands of years ago, during the height of the Allagan Empire. His role then had been much less public-facing, and so he had had the opportunity to devote himself to pleasant, diverting activities. In the Third Astral Era, his activity of choice had been the study of music. A great many Allagan officials were preoccupied with matters aetherochemical, but the empire still maintained conservatories dedicated to music and the arts, as the citizenry found themselves with more and more leisure time to fill. He almost hated to admit it, but the mortal musicians of Allag had taught him well. </p><p>It was rare he did things for pure enjoyment, actually, enjoyment free of the manipulation inherent in virtually all of his interactions with mortals. He enjoyed reading, but most of his reading these days involved the perusal of Eorzean histories and Sharlayan indices—tomes that would aid him in his conquering of the star. He enjoyed riding for what it was, though opportunities to do so were uncommon given Ilsabard’s stubborn climate. And of course he enjoyed the act of creation, of building—but building now was different than it had been in the time of Amaurot. As were so many things. Oh, he could oversee schematics for warmachina, and layouts for new housing districts, and blueprints for factories and warehouses, but there was nothing like bringing a Concept into being with naught but your own aether. </p><p>Doing that now was impossible, of course. He could not manipulate so much aether without suspicion, even amongst a populace where the aether-sensing talent was rare. So much was different now. Too much. </p><p>He had discovered some small ways to slake the thirst to create, though. Music was an act of creation in and of itself, its effects intangible but rousing. Indeed, music had been popular in Amaurot, but the methods for producing it would have been alien to the sundered beings now populating the star. When he was learning the violin all those years ago in Allag, he had often tried recreating Amaurotine music, though it had been nigh impossible to reproduce the sounds he remembered only vaguely from that far-flung time. He had always been more interested in science and creation, and part of him regretted not paying more attention to the music-makers. </p><p>Scale finished, Emet-Selch emerged from behind the curtain to find the empty stage of Garlemald’s opera hall. Several nearby standlamps flared to life with a lick of Fire aether, and the polished wood beneath him lit up mirror-bright. The opera hall was a marvel of modern acoustics, with a dome-shaped ceiling that seemed to stretch and amplify every single sound he made. His boots tapped back at him tenfold, as did his satisfied chuckle as he took in the surroundings. He stretched out his neck, felt it click, then lifted the violin to his chin, the bow positioned like a coeurl about to pounce. He had always been something of a performer. He was in his element.</p><p>Emet-Selch began to play. He had committed several pieces to memory, and the piece he played now had been composed by a Garlean violinist of some renown. It was a pretty enough work, and he played it for a few moments, relishing its primal simplicity, its gentle flow, its perfectly proportioned dynamics. In truth, it was almost too perfect. Amaurotine music had not been like that. Amaurotine composers had made wild music, frantic and free, with great gaps between notes, dissonant chords, curiously long silences. Thoughts of Amaurot washed over him even as the primitive Garlean music echoed, and eventually he found himself sawing into those strange chords once again, attempting to mimic the sounds of the ancient city. It was all for naught, of course. He could play until the next Ardor came; it would make no difference. But the desire was strong, and he gave into it like a noblewoman to a stubborn suitor. </p><p>A great Sound had destroyed Amaurot an eternity and a half ago. None of the unsundered had ever discovered where it had come from, or indeed if it even had an origin. Mayhap the Sound had been everything, and life and order and stability the aberration. Mayhap chaos was the norm. Sometimes Emet-Selch thought the music he played was a response to the Sound, a way to strike back at it from the bright abyss of life. What was the old saying? <em>Music soothes the savage beast</em>. Emet-Selch smiled at that, almost laughed in fact. If only. </p><p>He opened his eyes as he played, and when he did, he saw faces looking back. He almost started at the sight, but quickly regained himself, veering into another dissonant string of notes. He was not the only thing moving here after all. But these were no wild beasts watching and listening. They were mortals. </p><p>Ilsabard suffered ruthless winters, and Garlemald’s poor often stole into the city’s public buildings for warmth on particularly frigid nights. Sometimes Emet-Selch was joined by these wretches, men and women and children who were always surprised to find the ruler of the land himself here as well, performing to a hidden audience. Tonight was one such night. They watched wide-eyed, thinking themselves unseen behind curtains and gilded chairs, and for the span of two notes, three, he was the good Emperor Solus, who legend said played only for the urchins and beggars and vagabonds. </p><p>If only it were so. Emet-Selch had no desire to go down in history as a benevolent leader. He had played behind the scenes during the rise of Allag, and while his stint as emperor of Garlemald had proved entertaining in ways, he would be glad to put it behind him. He enjoyed planning, and scheming, but not so much ruling. Oh, he could perform the task well enough, but he did not much care for the respect of the nobles or the adoration of the smallfolk. Funny, though; in this hall, amidst this sound, these unwashed smallfolk were closer to the essence of the ancient world than any uppity nobleman would ever be. Emet-Selch quite liked the irony. </p><p>He finished with a flourish, rosin drifting away from the bridge in a quick white puff. None of the watching wretches moved, or drew breath. Strange. Now that he had stopped playing he felt lonelier somehow, knowing they were there. </p><p>The wretches finally began to move, sliding out from their shadowy hiding places. They were clearly planning to disperse and exit the opera house before he deigned to do anything about it. Well, loneliness had tweaked his nose, and he was not quite feeling himself. Emet-Selch cut through the cloud of rosin with his bow, jabbing at a middle-aged man who was just now emerging from behind a gilded chair in the orchestra. </p><p>“You,” he said. “Come here, my good man.” </p><p>“M-m-me?” The poor man could barely speak, he was so overwhelmed. He coughed, tried again. “Me, Your Radiance?” </p><p>“Yes.” Emet-Selch sighed. “Pray <em>approach</em>, sir.”</p><p>“Yes, m’lord, cer-certainly, m’lord.” The man shuffled out from behind the row of chairs and came barreling down the center aisle, eyes wide, hands stuffed into the pockets of a coat much too big for him. Still, he kept his distance when he reached the stage, stopping well short of the lip. “Your Radiance needs something of me? Y-Your Radiance plays magnificently, if I may say so.” He looked back and forth, seeming to suddenly realize he was alone with the emperor in this grand hall fit for royalty and nobles. His fellow vagabonds had taken this opportunity to flee like cockroaches exposed to lamplight. </p><p><em>Just think. This man knows you hold the power of life and death in your hands. His life. His death</em>. Emet-Selch smiled down at him. “I thank you for the kind words. What is your name?” </p><p>“Proculus dus Vala, Your Radiance.” </p><p>Dus. Despite his somewhat rough speech, the man was a civil servant. Or had been. Emet-Selch had almost no dealings with the common folk, except when he walked through the markets of Garlemald in disguise. It amused him to observe and listen, to hear what petty insults the merchants and craftsmen and housewives threw at the emperor and his retinue when no Garlean officials were within earshot. He had not done that in some time, though. Not since before Titus was born.</p><p>“How came you to live like this, Master Proculus?” </p><p>Proculus hesitated, but he met Emet-Selch’s gaze now with hard flinty eyes. Not a coward at least. “I was a notarius, m’lord. I kept records in one of the provinces. I, er...” He kicked at the perfect floor with one well-worn boot. “May I speak freely, m’lord?”</p><p>Emet-Selch thought about that. He looked down his nose at Proculus, tried to see a real person there. Tried to see one of his own people: Elidibus, or Lahabrea, or—though it stung—Azem. Tried to see Volesus. </p><p>Emet-Selch waited for the epiphany, but nothing came. No spark stirred to life in his heart, no great flood of sympathy burst forth for this man and his troubles. Proculus was incomplete and broken like they all were. A sad, scuttling little insect. </p><p>But he did not step on every insect he saw. He could listen. Yes, he could do that. He would. This time.  </p><p>“You may speak, Master Proculus,” he said with a sweeping gesture. </p><p>Proculus nodded. Sweat beaded on his brow. He was probably halfway to believing this was naught but a dream, but speak he did. “It was a-awful there, m’lord. I was in the north at an outpost near the old kingdom of Nhalmasque. There was... there was so much killing. And I don’t mean in battles or skirmishes. That’s to be expected, at least. I’m talking... our own men. My fellow Garleans. Hurting people because they wanted to.” He swallowed so hard his throat clicked. “Going into homes and bringing out women and children. Torturin’ ‘em for information. Sometimes not even for information. Just to do it. What information could a little girl this high have?” He held a trembling hand out to his side, at about waist height. His eyes were wet, Emet-Selch could see, but no tears fell. </p><p>“You should know I never gave such an order.”</p><p>“You wouldn’t have had to, Your Radiance,” said Proculus. His voice was sad. Resigned. Yes. He knew the shallow truth of the world that many refused to acknowledge. The banal truth that mortals were grasping little leeches, capable of evils both trivial and monumental in scale. And yet it took so many of them a lifetime to realize it. “No such orders were given. Oh, sure, some tried to get the men doing the worst of it to stop, but no one knows how it started. One man actin’ on a whim, prob’ly. Others following his example. Before you knew it, damn near everyone in the outpost had blood on their hands. All but me. I’m not proud of it, but I stayed. I took down numbers, transcribed reports. I didn’t say nothin’. But one day, I saw an officer leadin’ a little boy away. The boy was roughed up somethin’ fierce, torn shirt, bruised face. Bloody lips. Some cads had killed his mother after having their fun with her, y’know. Anyway, he looked at me with eyes as hopeless and world-weary as anything I ever saw. I thought... I thought he was asking me how I could let this happen to him and just watch. If I would keep letting it happen to other kids. With only his eyes. That was the day I left.” He gave a shuddering sigh. “I suppose you could say I deserted. But I couldn’t take it no more, m’lord, I couldn’t take it. I’d rather die than go back.” </p><p>Emet-Selch stared long and hard at Proculus. Desertion was punishable by hanging in Garlemald. No exceptions. He could have killed him right then and there. It would have been perfectly legal and breathtakingly simple. No one could have stopped him, not even the false Twelve themselves. Gods were slow to act, he found, and he could be very fast when he wanted to be. But his smile never wavered.</p><p>“Fear not. For telling me a truth not even my closest advisors would dare voice, I pardon you.” </p><p>Proculus could only blink in astonishment. Emet-Selch did not blame him. “P-pardon?” </p><p>“That’s right. I pardon you. You will not be court-martialed. If any official questions you, tell them you seek the emperor’s justice. All citizens have that right, and it is not usually invoked lightly.” His smile widened by a tooth. “They will bring you before me, and I will corroborate your words.” </p><p>He did not doubt Proculus told truth. He knew men were ruthless animals who bayed for blood and lived for the pleasures of the flesh, forcefully taken or not. That was why he had created empires. Empires were agents of chaos made manifest, slaughterhouses for innocent and wicked alike. They were excellent at coaxing the worst out of mankind, and that led to particularly brutal Ardors. All the better for the Ascians and the glorious world to come. The beauty of man was that you did not have to order him to do evil. Give him but the opportunity, and he would wreak havoc well enough on his own.</p><p>Torture for the fun of it? Rape and murder as well? Proculus was a naive fool to be shocked at what he had seen at that distant outpost. Yes, a fool; but a truthful and brave fool, and Emet-Selch saw something noble in that. </p><p>“In return for what you have told me, I will tell <em>you</em> the truth.” Emet-Selch set the violin and bow down gently on the stage, then moved to sit at its edge, his boots dangling above the orchestra pit. Proculus remained standing, arms straight as rods at his sides, expression confused. </p><p>“The whole truth. The truth of this world.” Why was he doing this? He was not sure. Mayhap he wanted to play god, choosing a man at random among his subjects and enlightening him with knowledge. Mayhap he was simply tired of keeping quiet. He was so full up with truth it could not help but spill out. </p><p>And so Emet-Selch spun the whole sordid tale for him. Amaurot with its beautiful towers and its grand minds at work on the problems plaguing the star, the original unbroken star. The great Sound, and the doom that came to take them all. The plight of the Ascians, and their ultimate goal. His true identity—the Architect of empires, the spinner of cities and armies, and the instigator of Ardors that would reconstitute the original world. And Zodiark, the great god of all, their savior, He who would make it all right again when His time came. </p><p>When Emet-Selch finished, he was met with a gaping yokel, a man working his mouth and finding himself unable to make a sound. As he had expected. </p><p>“Your Radiance, I… I can hardly imagine… what…” </p><p>“I do not expect you to understand,” said Emet-Selch. “I expect you to listen, and to accept what I tell you as truth. Did I not say I would tell you truth?” </p><p>“That you did, m’lord, that you did.” Proculus hesitated. “It’s just… I can’t… I’m a simple man, Your Radiance, and I can’t even begin to wrap my head ‘round all this…” </p><p>Emet-Selch got to his feet, thinking. “Well, of course it will take you some time to grow accustomed to what you have just learned.” His mind lit up, and he snapped his fingers. “How about this? I will take you on as my new scribe. Yes, that will do, won’t it? You may have fled your provincial post, but you will have an even greater role now. Notarius to the emperor himself. How does that sound?” </p><p>Proculus looked even more thunderstruck, if that were possible. The weakest gust of wind could have blown him over. “Y-Y-Your Radiance, this is all too much, I—“ </p><p>Emet-Selch closed his eyes and allowed himself a small smile. Proculus’s stuttering faded into the background. Emperor Solus the Good. It had sounded halfway to a jape before, but would it not be grand to hear that name ring from the throats of thousands of citizens, echo clear and golden from the rooftops of the capital? Would it not be glorious to see it engraved on shields and the arches of buildings? To see it immortalized in a sigil somehow? And what would that sigil look like, pray? Emet-Selch tried to imagine it. <em>Solus zos Galvus, wielding a violin instead of a sword, bow poised to begin his last great symphony. </em>Yes. It just might be a grand thing, at that. </p><p>And his legacy would start here, with this one man. </p><p>Proculus was still stuttering. Emet-Selch held a hand up and made a brisk shushing sound, and the man’s mouth snapped shut. “Hm? Did I hear you ask how this could all be?” He had been able to pick out that much from the man’s nervous blather. “Do you perchance need proof of what I can do? Of what I am?”</p><p>“As far as all that goes, th-there’s too much to ask about, Your Radiance,” said Proculus, breathless. He took a few unsteady steps forward, closing the distance between them. His boots clopped in the grand space, the sound bouncing harshly back to them from the vaulted ceiling. “I’ll take the position, and gladly, of course. But… yes, I suppose when it comes right down to it, I’d like to see something of this old world you spoke of. Something… something that will sh-show me there’s aught beyond the veil.” </p><p>“Hm. A fair enough request. Wise men should demand concrete evidence before making important decisions. Observe, then.” Emet-Selch held out one hand, palm up. “Fire.” A small red orb burst into life over his hand, then rotated into a spitting fireball. There was a <em>flump</em> as Proculus fell to his knees in the aisle. </p><p>“So it’s true,” he whimpered. “It’s true.” </p><p>Emet-Selch smiled. Rumors about the emperor being an evil sorcerer had plagued Garlemald for years now. He did not need to explain what he was doing. It was not possible for full-blooded Garleans to manipulate aether—or at least it was rare enough to be remarkable when it did happen. “Yes. I can perform magic.” </p><p>“It’s… it’s beautiful.”</p><p>“It is indeed.” Emet-Selch concentrated, and the fireball grew even larger, to about the size of a man’s head. The fire blazed hot and bold in his face, but it did not harm him. Emet-Selch flicked his fingers, and the orb floated to his left, stopping a few fulms away. </p><p>“There are magic users now, of course, but they would pale to see what the sorcerers of eld could accomplish.” Emet-Selch shrugged. “Today’s destructive magicks consist of parlor tricks and crude explosions. And healing magicks? Hah! Not far from a chirurgeon’s butchery.” Not Volesus’s magic, though, no; not his son’s—that was fit to rival the white mages of old Amdapor. But talented as Volesus was, Emet-Selch had never been overly impressed by the white mages and their art of succor. </p><p>“You can read about the terrible wonders of black magic in dusty old tomes, but <em>t</em><em>his</em> is true destruction.” Emet-Selch snapped his fingers, and the fireball at his side unrolled into a long writhing snake of flame. He spun, and as he did, the burning snake turned with him, gnashing its fangs, sending sparks flying. The snake grew legs, then wings, and soon there was a dragon twisting underneath the opera house’s dome. One of Lahabrea’s Concepts—he did so love working with Fire. Emet-Selch heard Proculus gasp, and he sounded frightened now, not awed or amused. Damn the man’s fright! Instead of holding back, he let power surge through him. The dragon had grown huge, tumbling through the air, opening its mouth in a great silent roar, unleashing a gout of flame down the aisle—</p><p>All of a sudden Emet-Selch smelled burning, fresh and strong behind him. He spun to see a mound of slag where Proculus had been standing. Cold washed down his back. In his enthusiasm he had reached too far, flung fire where he had not meant to. The building was not burning, but the man had, and all too quickly. He had not had time to scream. He likely had not had time to realize he was dying. </p><p>“Dammit,” Emet-Selch said softly, then louder: “Dammit!” </p><p><em>This is what happens when I try to know a mortal</em>, he thought, his anger flaring hot, making the dragon burn blue around him. <em>The universe conspires to stop me, to put impossible boundaries in my path. Useless. Useless</em>.</p><p>Emet-Selch stood there for a moment, pinching the bridge of his nose and breathing in sharply. <em>No sense in letting this enrage me right now. I must stop the building from burning down at least</em>. He dismissed the Fire aether, then directed a pocket of Wind aether over to the slag. He wrapped the pocket around it, lifted it into the air, and began heading for the back door. He moved stiffly, back arched, brow furrowed. Why had the damnable man made him care, if only for a moment? </p><p>It mattered not. It had been an accident; he had not meant to do it, and that was that. There was a cesspit a malm or so away where he could dispose of the refuse. </p><p>**</p><p>The deed done, Emet-Selch came back to the opera house to collect his things and sweep away any other evidence of the incident. His actions were unhurried and quiet, and in less than an hour he was satisfied that the building was as clean and unmarred as it had been when he arrived. Violin and bow safely in the case, he passed through the staff’s corridor and walked back out into the blizzard. The snow was coming down as hard as ever, and the sky was the same bruised blue, flaring with the occasional burst of lighting. He could almost believe nothing out of the ordinary had happened this night. </p><p>Emet-Selch moved at a brisk clip, hood up, passing unsuspecting wretches warming their hands over burning trash in the alleys spidering out from around the opera house. Dark mounds they were, gathered around flickering red blurs through the curtain of white. They talked lowly amongst themselves; mayhap some of them had been watching him play not so long ago. They did not know him like this, but if they had, they would have cringed away in fear, or at least groveled until he could stand it no longer. </p><p><em>And so what if these fools fear me?</em> he thought. <em>What would change if they loved me? If they knew me? Ask the heap of slag I just threw into a cesspit. Love does not warm you, or feed you, or shield you from a knife in the dark. What good is love when everything fades? The price of love is always misery</em>.</p><p>The strange heap of slag would be found in the morning by confused workmen. They would bury it in some out of the way place, and no one would be the wiser. Why worry, why fret or lament? Proculus dus Vala had been a miserable little rat, like all these men. Like all mortals, in the end. He would not be missed. </p><p>Emet-Selch walked on past the poor louts, back to the alleyways that led to the palace. The snow drove down around him, cold and unrelenting.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>If you are enjoying this and feel so inclined, please join this lovely book club and yell about villains with me! https://discord.gg/FB8hqkD</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. birdsong</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It took only a few seconds of quiet concentration. Before Volesus could believe it, the bird was hopping about, flapping its stubby little wings like it had never been hurt. Like it had never had a broken leg at all. He watched it catch the wind, smiling as it soared up to meet the sky. It was rarely ever this beautiful in Garlemald; the sun was bright and yellow, chasing away all but the most stubborn clouds, and the pleasant warmth danced with the wind, fresh and cool. Volesus wished he could bottle up this feeling, this atmosphere, and transfer it to the cold sober corridors of the palace. It was often too chill and dark there for his liking. </p><p>Volesus watched the bird fly away until it was a speck in the distance. Master O-Muro-Sen had told him that healing was as much about compassion as about skill in weaving aether. Well, his mother had always said he had the biggest heart of anyone she’d ever known, and she was ever so perceptive. He did not usually take compliments too eagerly—a big head could overpower a big heart in the end—but he would embrace this one. It was good to heal. It was good to be kind. That was a simple truth of life, as solid and obvious as the ground beneath his feet. How could he doubt it? </p><p>The sound of his brother laughing brought him back. Turning around, he saw Titus flitting through the bushes, his mother right on his heels. “Slow down, my lad,” she panted, one hand flying to her mound of piled hair. Titus giggled, and his Mother smiled to hear it, dancing to and fro after the little boy. </p><p>Years later, Volesus would find himself coming back to that last fleeting image before the incident dashed his naïveté to bits. His brother laughing in that breathless manner peculiar to very young children, bubbling and bright; his mother smiling down, serene as the sky above, skirts fluttering around her ankles. He had seen darkness before, in the eyes of his father when he looked upon Titus, in the way the palace guard spoke of the dead in faraway provinces, in his mother weeping at a window. He’d had more than a few glimpses of the sucking void at heart of the world, but before, he’d been able to coat over that unpleasantness with a healthy dose of optimism and a winning smile. But not now. And perhaps never again. </p><p>Titus grew excited of a sudden, and began pointing at something over Volesus’s shoulder. Volesus turned, and there on the top of a hill a hundred or so fulms away were three riders. He saw one figure raise an arm, almost as if in salute. </p><p>It happened very quickly.</p><p>There was a zipping whoosh, like the sound of a large insect, and Volesus felt something stir his hair. Then he heard a dull thud, and a scream, and when he turned, he saw his mother toppled to the ground, huffing and clutching at a short length of wood buried in her shoulder. </p><p>He reacted faster than he had expected. Rush of wind, light brown and lush green as he ran over, falling to his knees by her side. Titus blinked at them from the bushes, utterly unconcerned. A bird twittered from a branch nearby. Titus looked up at it, then back at his mother on the ground.</p><p>“Mama?” he asked in that high child’s voice. </p><p>“Keep playing, Ti,” said Volesus urgently, and shot a hasty smile his way. </p><p>Titus blinked slowly. His eyes were so like their father’s, it was unsettling. But Volesus had found that his smiles were quite effective, and he thanked the gods that now was no exception. </p><p>“A-alright,” said Titus with some uncertainty, but he did as bid, tramping back into the bushes. </p><p>Volesus turned back to his mother. “Mother,” he murmured. “Mother, I can fix this. Don’t worry. Just—just breathe deeply.” </p><p>His mother jerked a nod, and started to take quick breaths through her nose. Sweat had plastered her hair to her face and pooled in the dip of her neck. There was a small trickle of blood from the bolt, which Volesus found worrying. It was a crossbow quarrel, and it looked like it was buried deep, very close to her heart. He would need more magic than usual to pull this off. </p><p>Master O-Muro-Sen had taught him to never draw deeply from his own aether. That way led to accidental overexertion, which could dry you up like a husk. But he was panicked, and despite his training he reached within.</p><p>Aether shot out of his hands in a large white arc, moving to surround the wound. The aether seemed to… prod at the injury, jostling the quarrel just a bit. His mother cried out in pain, and Volesus hesitated. <em> Think</em>! What had Master O-Muro-Sen said? <em> Cool the pain as soon as you can… ah, yes! Cool!  </em></p><p>Volesus channeled a trickle of ice into the wound, and his mother’s whimpering began to die down. </p><p>“Volesus,” she murmured. “You… you can…”</p><p>“I know,” he said, trying to focus on his work. “I’m sorry I kept it from you, but—well—“</p><p>“Does… does your father know?”</p><p>“Yes.” </p><p>“And he… approves?” She sounded worried. </p><p>Volesus thought for a heartbeat about telling her the whole truth. But there wasn’t time, and he needed to concentrate, give himself fully to the task before him. </p><p>“It’s complicated, but yes. I-I can tell you more later.” He fed more ice aether into the skin around the quarrel, and his mother grunted, then seemed to drift into a sleepy state, somewhere closer to unconsciousness than consciousness. That was good; it was what he had been hoping for. By aspecting his aether toward umbral Ice, he could keep the quarrel still and the wound in stasis. He began to work with the other elements, knitting skin together with Earth and Water, stanching blood with Wind. He frowned at the quarrel as he worked, a thought coming to mind. Crossbows had fallen out of favor as hunting weapons in the past decade or so; magitek rifles were far more common these days. Still, the crossbow was popular among the old-fashioned Garlean elite, especially those vying for rank in the emperor’s court—</p><p>There was a sudden rustling in the woods nearby. Volesus looked up.</p><p>And nearly stopped channeling at the shock. His father had ridden into the clearing, chocobo bucking this way and that, agitated. A magitek rifle clattered against the bird’s barding; he’d been hunting. </p><p>“F-father?!” Volesus squeaked. The emperor simply looked at him, patting the neck of his chocobo to calm it. Volesus thought as fast as he ever had—his father had forbidden the channeling of aether in front of anyone other than Master O-Muro-Sen or himself. But surely this was an emergency? Surely he would understand? “I-I know I shouldn’t use magic, not where other people can see it happening, but she was hit by a crossbow bolt—I don’t know why or from where—and she’ll die if I don’t do anything!”</p><p>His father considered him for a moment, looking to his mother, then to Titus. When those amber eyes settled on him again, they were cool and unconcerned. Like he had expected this. “Do not fret. You may continue. If it is the only way to save her, it is the only way to save her. And if my advisors arrive and see what is happening, well.” He shrugged. “I will explain the situation to them later.” </p><p>Volesus nodded, calmer, though he was still worried. It was all he could do to keep up the healing. His father’s voice was colder than an Ilsabardian winter. He sounded as if—as if he didn’t care at all, as if his wife pulling through was about as important to him as the color of his riding gloves. His parents’ union had been one of convenience, not love, he knew that—but to hear it laid out so clearly in his father’s crisp voice pried at something in his soul. </p><p>“Well?” said the emperor. His father. “Go on.” </p><p>“A-alright,” Volesus said, and given leave, reached further. This time he did as Master O-Muro-Sen had taught. He felt magical energy rush into him as he pulled more from his surroundings: the trees, the grass, the bushes, even the birds—all granted him some measure of strength. </p><p>His father looked down on what was happening with barely any expression at all. He looked glum, if Volesus had to put a word to it, his lips pulled down at the edges, his eyes half-lidded as if he were falling sleep. Volesus continued to work, continued to pour healing aether into the wound, knowing that the imperial advisors would be back any moment, knowing his mother would want to know exactly what he had done when she came to. What had happened, anyway? Who were those mounted men? Was this really just an accident? Had they been aiming at the birds, and simply missed? Father had invited them all out today because he had wanted to hunt pheasant. It certainly <em>was</em> good hunting weather. Mayhap they were hunters. </p><p>On top of all that, Titus would want to know what was going on eventually. He was sniffling quietly in his little mound of bushes a ways away, the poor lad. Couldn’t Father go comfort him? Volesus shook his head. <em> Of course he won’t, what am I thinking? </em> At any rate—he couldn’t worry about all that now! He just… had.. to make… her… <em> better</em>. </p><p>A few more agonizing moments passed, silent and still, and his mother’s eyelids began to quiver. The third eye on her forehead seemed to be gleaming as well. Volesus almost stopped, almost pulled his hands back, but he could feel he was getting close. He tipped the flow of aether back to umbral Ice, numbing the pain of the wound as fully as possible, and with a quick snap of his arm, yanked the quarrel from her shoulder. Her mouth shot open, as if she expected to yelp in pain; but she met only the aether’s icy numbness, and made no sound. She looked to the wound—closing up already through the hole in her dress—then to Volesus, eyes wide and afraid.</p><p>“Mother,” said Volesus, tossing the quarrel aside. He tried his best to sound soothing. “Everything is alright. I—I can explain now. In fact, Father can help me do it.” He gestured helplessly at his father, looking to him for assistance, and felt the color drain from his face. </p><p>His father was not alone. His two advisors had come out of the woods in the time it had taken Volesus to remove the quarrel. The air itself seemed to be shivering, and exhaustion hit him like a hundred-tonze weight. Suddenly he understood he was in danger. He had drawn in too much of the surrounding aether, and had also depleted a good deal of his own. He was in a shaky place, somewhere between being aether-drunk and aether-deprived. Master O-Muro-Sen had taught him well over the years, but he had never had to use his magic in such a stressful, high-stakes situation before. There would be browning trees and dead animals in the forest now, and he would be fatigued for hours. </p><p>But something else had happened in the wild attempt to save his mother. He had not noticed until this moment. His vision had… widened, encompassing the whole of the surrounding area. And more. His father kneed his mount forward, mouth forming words; his mother shifted, tried to sit up; and he, open as he was to the aetherial flow, <em> saw. </em> He saw further than the now, the present—he saw into the future. He did not know how he knew. It was as obvious as wind on his skin, sun on his face; the future was simply <em> there</em>, real and tangible and true. Like something you could hold in your hand, waiting just around the bend ahead of him. He swallowed and tried to remain calm. Time seemed to slow, and that queer shivering in the air intensified. He could hear the breathing of everyone around him; he could feel small bursts of wind from bird wings beating hundreds of fulms overhead; he could see the sweat leaking from pores in his mother’s brow. Most notably, images had materialized around the heads of the two riders at his father’s side. They were court officials, advisors Volesus had seen around the palace but had never spoken to. The images were blurry, but Volesus looked the men in the eyes, and when he did, he could make them out. Bodies in shrouds, their faces tenting the white cloth. They would be dead within the week. How, he did not know—but they would die, and there was no way to stop it. </p><p>And his father? Oh, his father. There was… a peculiar mist around him, a darkness that was both obscure and transparent at once; a stone wall and a bride’s veil. Unlike with the advisors, Volesus did not think this had anything to do with the future. This was—and he struggled to articulate it in his mind—this was his father’s essence rendered aetherial. He could read it. The emperor radiated feelings rather than images. A red mask of anger, bitterness, deep-rooted hatred… and the smallest flickering flame of love. That was the most horrific thing, Volesus thought—love, in the midst of all that? How could love survive in such a war-torn wasteland of emotion? What in the seven heavens was nurturing it? Or the seven hells? It felt wrong. Looking at his father was like looking at an open grave. Like looking at death itself. </p><p>He had known his father a cruel man almost from the start. The emperor treated him with kindness, yes, but it was a kindness foreign to the way he looked at Titus, to the way he talked to his mother. Volesus was the only person he seemed to show any compassion at all. He loved his father for having taught him magic; he respected him for his prowess and intelligence and love of learning. Solus zos Galvus was undoubtedly a strong leader of men, with accomplishments aplenty under his belt; historians would spend their entire lives detailing his reign, his myriad victories. But did Volesus feel true compassion for his father? Did he feel true warmth from his embrace? He thought of the day not long ago when he had walked into the emperor’s solar with Titus. He had been rebuffed with little more than a wave of the hand. That was the first he had really felt it—the pinprick spark of uncertainty, the sense that his father was not… all… there. Something was wrong in his heart. Something in him was twisted, rotten. And now he knew. The aether let him see. </p><p>But it was almost too much. The images, the enhancement of everything around him, the energy required to sustain this heightened sense of awareness. Volesus tore his eyes away and focused on bundling the aether back into himself. He was worried about collapsing from fatigue in front of his parents. How had he done this in the first place? Did his father know of this ability? Master O-Muro-Sen had speculated that there were no limits to what men could do when manipulating aether. Was this some strange aetherial phenomenon, then? All was aether at the core: flesh, blood, the soul. The very land upon which they walked. It made some kind of sense. If aether had always existed, if it comprised all things that <em> would </em> exist—then reading the future might be possible. It had also allowed him to clearly see the essence of a soul, as he had with his father. What were the implications of <em> that?</em> </p><p>Volesus finally succeeded in suppressing the tide, in cutting himself off from the well of aether he had maintained. Being so connected, so immersed—it was like touching everything in the vicinity, fitting an electrified line to everything that lived. Releasing it was like letting go of a great burden, one that nonetheless energized him. Time began to flow more normally. He got up from the ground and backed away from his mother, breathing in deeply through his nose. He was still slightly overwhelmed, but he could move now without trembling. His father was speaking in a calm, controlled voice; he must have assumed the strange aetherial flux had been necessary for Volesus’s healing. </p><p>Volesus blanched when he heard what his father was saying. He was explaining to his wife and advisors about Volesus’s innate ability to use magic. Was this what would doom the advisors? His father had often impressed upon him the importance of keeping this secret, no matter the circumstances. How it was a matter of his survival—of the very empire’s survival—due to how prejudiced the average Garlean was against foreign magic users. Yes, he was sure now—this would condemn them. He examined the two men more closely. They looked so composed as they listened, obedient and oblivious to a fault, knots of rank glittering on their tabards. Minor nobility, it seemed—probably military. He did not know them, but it almost made him want to cry. Was there nothing he could do for these men? He swallowed the lump in his throat. Somehow, deep down, he knew anything he attempted would be futile. </p><p>Volesus looked to his mother, trying desperately to push down the queasiness rising in his stomach. She remained quiet while his father spoke. Her lips were pursed. </p><p>“And so,” finished his father, “you see why I must tread carefully. Volesus’s ability could be used against the empire; the boy himself might even be targeted. You know as well as I the foul rumors making the rounds these days.” He must have meant the gossip that the emperor was a voidmage or something of the sort. It was quite a popular sentiment among the common folk, especially those from the provinces. “At the same time, the ability to manipulate aether is so very rare among our people. Why let it go to waste when it manifests? When Volesus came to me after first displaying the ability, I thought it best to secure him a teacher, as he expressed an interest in the healing arts. And wouldn’t you know it! His ability saved your life, Cassia. In light of that, I would appreciate if we could keep this secret among us.” He smiled coldly. The advisors murmured assent, but Volesus was shocked to see his mother all but pacified. She looked like she might start screaming. </p><p>But instead of screaming she only grimaced. “It is a surprise, I grant,” she said with some difficulty, “and not something I am entirely comfortable with. But as long as Volesus is safe I care not. He did prevent a tragedy, after all. I can keep the secret.” </p><p>The emperor seemed to accept this, nodding curtly. Volesus said nothing; he still did not trust himself to speak at length. While his father and advisors dismounted to help his mother up, he busied himself fetching Titus. His brother was sitting in the same clump of bushes as before, teary-eyed but otherwise none the worse for wear. When Volesus returned to the group, Titus in tow, he found the emperor leaning down over his mother. Their eyes were locked and they were speaking softly, but there was something fiery about the exchange. Volesus looked up at the sky as he drew nearer, pretending to track the flight of a flock of geese passing by overhead. He pointed them out to Titus, diverting his attention from their parents. </p><p>“Who were those men on the hill?” his mother asked through her teeth. She was whispering, but Volesus’s hearing had been sharpened by the surge of aether. “One of them had the stature of Julius over there, and I see he carries a crossbow on his mount.” </p><p>“Come now, you’re delirious. It is pheasant season, and you know there are still plenty who hunt with crossbows these days. Did Volesus completely numb the pain? If you’re still hurting, I can ask him to try again.” </p><p>“I am fine. Fully healed, I think. If there’s one thing I believe of you, it is that you spoke truthfully about Volesus’s abilities. Who were those men, Solus?”</p><p><em> What</em>? Volesus could not help it; his eyes flicked to his parents in time to see his father shrug. The advisors were fiddling with the barding on their chocobos, clearly waiting for the emperor to finish speaking with the empress before approaching. “Green hunters with horrible aim. Or bandits, mayhap. As loath as I am to admit it, I have not yet done away with all of the capital’s scoundrels.” </p><p>“You would have to do away with yourself first. Gods take you! For the sake of our children I’ve endured <em> years </em> of your scheming. <em> Years </em> of torture. If you want me dead, just kill me now and be done with it. I know you can. Voidsent.” His mother spat the oath, and a chill ran down Volesus’s back. He could not believe what he was hearing, and yet...</p><p>His father did not flinch. Instead, he leaned in as if to kiss his mother, but stopped when his lips were less than an ilm from hers. “I know you tried to have me poisoned earlier this month. That new footman with the penchant for bringing me more wine than I asked for? I suppose you’re wondering where he went.” Now he did kiss her, then drew back. “Know he has been taken care of. And be glad the children came out with us today. That is my final word on the matter, Cassia.” </p><p>His mother clapped a hand over her mouth, tears springing to her eyes. “I hate you,” she murmured. “I hate you.” </p><p>“It matters not whether you hate or love me, only that you understand your place,” he said. Then he smiled. “I daresay I prefer you like this. Cowed. Horrified. If you strike, I strike back all the fiercer. What an interesting dance. Let us keep it that way, hm?” </p><p>“You’ll make a mistake. Y-you’ll—“ </p><p>His father laughed, cutting her off. “You do love to say that. Well, you live another day, my silly little canary. Keep trying.” </p><p>Volesus stood stock still, watching his mother’s face. She made no reply, closing her eyes so that the tears streamed down her cheeks. Had it always been like this? Had they always been coeurls with their backs up, circling each other, looking for an opening? How much had he been blind to until now? </p><p>“My lads!” His father called out to them, and Volesus started. There was a twinkle in his eye, all the more chilling after his quiet tirade. “I was just making sure your mother was alright, though I suppose I didn’t really have anything to worry about with Volesus here. I’m proud of you, my boy. Saving her <em> and </em> keeping Titus calm. You are the hero of the day.” </p><p>“Yes, Father,” said Volesus, and his voice came out stiff and dry. “I did my best. Thank you for…” He struggled for words. “Thank you for supporting me.” His father’s tone was so sprightly, so fake. Like a mummer with a mammet. It made him want to retch.</p><p>“The situation being what it was, I could hardly be expected to do aught else.” He smiled again, then waved to his advisors. They trotted over, and Volesus put an arm around Titus. He was too winded to help them, and he was not sure he wanted to get any closer to his father at the moment.</p><p>“Is Mama a-alright?” piped Titus all of a sudden. “She’s crying.” </p><p>“Oh, she is perfectly fine,” their father said almost off-handedly as he stooped over her. “She’s numbed quite well, but the ordeal has frightened her. I should say I would be just as frightened were I in her state. Alright, Julius, Gallus—with me.” </p><p>Volesus watched as his father bent down to lift his mother. He grabbed her torso, while the advisors handled her legs. The emperor’s hands, clasped around his mother’s waist, were as pristine as always, sheathed in gloves of the finest white leather. Volesus focused on them, on the way the bones stuck out as he strained under her weight. The emperor’s hands had ruffled his hair, patted his shoulder, brushed his cheek. He had only ever experienced their softness. But Volesus remembered the statue of his father in the palace garden, one hand outstretched over the head of the cowering enemy general, and he knew those same hands had done great violence. He had known it all his life, but he was just now seeing the blood covered by those pristine white gloves. </p><p><em> Have I ever seen him without gloves? </em> The thought seemed to come from far away. <em> No, I don’t think so. I have never seen him. No one has. </em></p><p>Volesus remained silent as they left the clearing. He looked up at his father, one gloved hand on his mother reclining in the saddle, one at his belt. The doomed advisors flanked them on left and right, and Volesus saw both their mounts wore crossbows. He let his mind wander. If the aetherial flow could render the future, what of the recent past? Could he use it to look back to when the mounted men had appeared on the hill? Could he confirm what his mother had suggested? Did he really want to know? </p><p>Volesus sniffed and bundled away the last few aetheric tendrils he had extended. No, he found he did not. He had seen enough. He gripped his mother’s hand on one side and Titus’s on the other. Their hands were warm, real, a far cry from the gloved hand on the sword hilt at his father’s side. He faced straight ahead. He could not play the child any longer; he would need to be strong from now on. <em> Father will never come for me</em>, he thought. <em> I can be a shield for Mother and Titus at the very least. I can temper his cruelty.  </em></p><p>And yet Volesus felt eyes on him as they walked. Like spiders on his neck. </p><p>
  <em> I can try. </em>
</p><p>He did not meet his father’s gaze for the rest of the journey back to the palace.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. see me</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This chapter contains an instance of graphic violence. Please proceed with caution.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Augusta watched the sun rise over the faraway mountaintops from the large windows of the emperor’s solar. This was the most insulated room in the palace, and yet it was chilly even here, even with the windows closed. She pulled her scarf tighter around her bare shoulders, shivering in her shift. She had woken up not long ago, and certainly did not have the gumption to wake Solus zos Galvus along with her. But neither did she want to go back to sleep, so she had compromised by climbing out of bed and walking over to the window, quiet as a ghost. There she had cast her gaze outward, out of the solar and the palace and away, letting the feelings of the night before cool, smoothing them down and freeing them from her skin as best she could. It was almost always a futile effort, but it was necessary, as vital as breaking one’s fast each morning. </p><p>She stood there for a good half a bell before she heard movement behind her. When she turned, she saw that Emperor Solus zos Galvus had finally risen from the bed to pad over to the fireplace, grabbing the golden stoker along the way. He was still shirtless, breeches tied tight around his waist, and he moved with a quickness of step belying his years. He loved to complain about the cold, but it never truly seemed to bother him. The coming of winter had been particularly brutal this year, though; maybe he was finally starting to feel it like everyone else. </p><p><em>It’s cold enough for the emperor to tend his own fireplace,</em> she thought with a small smile. <em>If he is nothing else, he is unpredictable. Dangerously so. </em>She noticed he was reading a slip of parchment as he moved the logs around; some manservant or other must have slid it under the door in the night. She turned back to her contemplation of the skyline, listening as the flames popped and snapped against the wood. </p><p>When the emperor was done stoking the fire, he strode up to join Augusta. They stood quietly together, looking out over the palace grounds, out all the way to the mountain’s lonely silhouette. </p><p>“When will the empress return from her meeting with the masons?” asked Augusta. She pointedly decided not to ask about the parchment. If it was news, she would hear what it was in time. </p><p>“Late tonight. She wants to walk them through another one of our vacation villas.” Solus zos Galvus snorted. “To call it a ‘vacation’ villa has always struck me as highly humorous. It is only a few degrees warmer there than it is here, which merely means it will take you half a bell longer to freeze in your bath. I don’t know why she’s so intent on remodeling those gaudy old buildings. I suspect she simply enjoys any task that takes her away from the palace, and thus away from me.” </p><p>Augusta made a noise of acknowledgment; relations between the emperor and empress had always been… volatile, to put it lightly. Solus zos Galvus was silent for a beat. </p><p>“How is Volesus getting along?”</p><p>Augusta hesitated. She hadn’t expected this line of questioning. “With his new wife? Quite well, as I understand, Your Radiance.” Ah. She bit her lip. It had slipped out before she could stop it, and she braced herself for what she knew would follow. </p><p>“Oh, do not bother with titles here, Augusta. I’ve told you over and over. It makes my skin crawl.” He smiled crookedly at her. “You were not always so stiffly formal, as I recall. What happened to the girl who used to watch me fence in the mornings? What happened to the girl who stood fast and stalwart by my side from the start? Unlike my dear wife, you have never betrayed me, nor given me great reason to fret or complain. And that is rare for…” He seemed to stumble for a word. “For those the burden of state puts close to me. ‘Solus’ will do just fine here. I have asked so often for this favor, and so often have I been rebuffed. Will you finally oblige me now?”</p><p>Augusta suppressed a flinch. It was a tempting offer. She had not called him “Solus” since the very early days, since before he had been crowned emperor. She had thought it a habit she had simply fallen out of, but a part of her said that was wrong. In truth, she did not want to give herself false hope. She did not want to love him again. </p><p><em>Pathetic,</em> she thought. <em>That I could yet entertain the fancy. I should have ground it into dust years ago.</em> Her ritual at the window had failed miserably, as she knew it would. </p><p>“I simply prefer not to,” she said finally. “It is a matter of personal discipline and habit.”</p><p>Solus zos Galvus looked at her with those enigmatic eyes, glinting even now in the dim room. He did not blink. Care with words had kept her alive this long, but suddenly she was unsure. For the shortest breath of time, she thought mayhap she had finally crossed the uncrossable line, that this would be it. This would be the moment the emperor exploded, and she saw him bare his soul for true, and she would be treated with the wrath he meted out to retainers who had displeased him. And then she would die. It would almost be a relief, she realized. So many years being careful, painfully careful, and what for…?</p><p>But he sighed, and just like that the pall of danger dispersed like morning mist before the sun. </p><p>“Well, suit yourself I suppose,” he said, and moved to pull his undershirt down from where it hung on the bedpost. “If you want to remain formal in the bedroom, that is your prerogative, and far be it from me to question my most faithful advisor’s preference.” He chuckled. The sound was far from mirthful. “Remind me not to ask again.” </p><p>Augusta gave another shiver, and went to gather her own clothing. She did not know what else to say. <em>After all these years, I know so little of him. How quickly I forget.</em> Well, a good humbling was always healthy when it came to dealings with the emperor of Garlemald. Kept one sharp. Kept one breathing. </p><p>They dressed in silence. Then Solus zos Galvus mused, almost to himself, “So Volesus is doing well with this senator’s daughter.” Augusta perked up; with the way the conversation had veered off, she had nearly forgotten he’d brought up his son. “When can I expect a grandchild, do you think?” </p><p>“That, I cannot say for certain. I have not looked in on them especially closely. But likely within the year, if I had to make a guess.” </p><p>“Always so precise with your words. I do admire that in you.” </p><p>“I make an effort to perform my duties with as much care as possible, Your Radiance.” </p><p>“No, truly! If Frumentarium possessed <em>half</em> your deftness, I’d have uncovered every spy ensconced in my court by now. Hm! No, even better—I dare well say I’d have uncovered every spy in the entire <em>empire.</em> But I’m jealous of you, I admit, and must needs keep my best asset close to my chest.” </p><p>Close to his chest? Augusta flushed. Surely he meant that figuratively, and not in the way she hoped. <em>In the way I had once hoped,</em> she corrected in her head, but too slowly to really convince herself she believed it. </p><p>“You have saved my life, after all. Frumentarium protects the state, but it’s purely due to your excellent network of eyes-and-ears that I haven’t yet died by some scheme of Cassia’s.” He chuckled. “She’s really quite wicked when she wants to be, isn’t she?” </p><p>Once again Augusta found herself at a loss, but not for shock at the emperor’s flippant words. She had long since grown accustomed to the amusement with which Solus zos Galvus spoke of his wife’s attempts to kill him. It was simply that, when it came to the empress, she tried to express as few strong opinions as possible. </p><p>“I was raised on Garlean statesmanship the way other noble girls are raised on ballroom etiquette. We have long been used to instability—chaos, in some cases—and many are not beneath underhanded tactics to achieve their personal and political goals. I think it is simply writ in our blood.” </p><p>“Hah! Well said.” The emperor hummed as he inspected his appearance in the full-length mirror gracing the wall, and Augusta thought she heard the snatch of a tune popular among children in the poorer districts of Garlemald. How had he learned <em>that?</em> Mystery upon mystery. </p><p>“I’m in <em>quite</em> the jolly mood today. You report nothing but good tidings, I’m alerted this very morning that the eastern campaign proceeds apace, and I’ve absolutely no dull statesmen to attend to until the evening. What shall I do?”</p><p>He looked so happy—almost young again—that Augusta allowed herself a smile, and to the seven hells with mysteries. “May I suggest a walk, and breakfast along the way?” </p><p>“Truly you never lack for wonderful ideas, my lady,” he said with a grand gesture, and made for the large oaken doors. “Come, walk with me.” Augusta pulled her scarf tighter, then followed him out of the solar. </p><p>**</p><p>They made a slow procession through the palace, heading toward the servants’ quarters. It was still quite early, and only a few servants and chambermaids were about, dusting and tweaking tapestries and adjusting vases on plinths—generally trying to look busy in the emperor’s presence. Not that he cared overmuch, most like. But their real duty, as far as Augusta was concerned, was to keep their wits about them. They were her most critical network of eyes-and-ears. They could afford to miss a spot of dirt on a rug, but they could not afford to miss a potential threat to the royal body. </p><p>She and the emperor turned a corner, and a plump maid sweeping near a column made a vague flicking motion with her fingers. It would have looked meaningless to anyone else. Augusta nodded. Nothing suspicious to report. She relaxed her shoulders. She had been afraid Cassia would try something while she was out of the palace—maybe send a hired blade in the night—but it seemed she had lost her taste for the bloodier side of Garlean politics. Truly, Augusta suspected the empress had been cowed several years ago after that hunting “accident.” Thinking about it still gave her a stab of shame, but it had all been to protect the royal family. She could sleep soundly on that interpretation of the event, at least. </p><p>Augusta trailed Solus by a few fulms, her head bowed in thought as she passed the long bay windows looking out over the gardens. Down amid the lush green foliage and arched gray stone were the emperor’s sons, both engaged in different forms of training. Volesus stood at one end of the garden, inside a circle of stone flanked by a gazebo. He was a man grown now, broad-shouldered with long blonde hair like spilled sunshine, and he was nodding enthusiastically to his tutor, a Padjal named O-Muro-Sen. Everyone in the palace thought he had been teaching the emperor’s eldest history and medicine, but the Padjal was actually a mage, as was Volesus. Augusta was not supposed to know this. Being Solus zos Galvus’s personal spy meant she often learned more than the emperor himself would like, but she was sharp enough to keep her mouth shut when it came to certain topics. And indicating that she knew Volesus was a mage could very well get her killed within the day, as it had those poor court advisors years ago. </p><p>She moved on, head down but still observing. Titus, the younger by more than a decade, skinny and stern-faced, stood on a clear patch of grass on the other side of the gardens. He looked a Solus zos Galvus in miniature, swinging his wooden sword at a dummy post under the watchful eye of Nigellus, the grizzled master-at-arms. Titus would continue to learn sword forms and general battle tactics; he did not have a mind for books and history as his older brother did. But then, there were very few like Volesus yae Galvus. Very few. She had known him since he was a child, and had a sense he would go far. Mayhap as far as his father. </p><p>Almost unconsciously, Augusta’s eyes flicked ahead to the man she was following. Solus zos Galvus had slowed to an adamantoise’s pace now, hands clutched loosely against his back, posture bent. Over the years she had noted something peculiar—he could look perfectly jolly and regal one moment, only to slump into lethargy and listlessness the next. He had seemed so eager to get out of the solar, so bright and youthful for just that one simple second, and now he was old and stooped again. <em>W</em><em>hat weighs on you, my lord?</em> she thought, finding herself worried for him despite everything. <em>T</em><em>he mantle of rule? Your age? Life itself?</em> Just then he looked over his shoulder, as if catching the words in her head. His face had grown lined, but he was as handsome as ever. Fight it though she did—and valiantly—the girl she had been blushed to see his eyes meet hers so intently. But the time to indulge a girl’s fancies had long since passed. She knew that, had to remind herself of it day after wretched bloody day, for all that he allowed her to warm his bed when the empress was out of the palace. </p><p>“What is it, Augusta?” he asked. “You’ve a pensive look.” </p><p>“Nothing to trouble you, Your Radiance.” She swallowed, ventured further. “I—I thought you seemed sad, is all.” </p><p>Solus zos Galvus snorted, turning forward and away from her. “Sad? What is there to be sad about? Women and their soft hearts.” Still, he sounded amused. “The empire flourishes, and you worry. Didn’t I tell you? My oldest son is happily married, the provinces fair burgeon with conscripts to fill our ranks and resources to fill our warehouses. Life could not be better. Smile, and enjoy Garlemald’s fruits. You deserve that much at least. You have served me well, and I do not mind admitting it.” </p><p>Just when she thought she’d peeled away the thinnest layer of his mystique, he proved inscrutable. Did he truly respect her, or was she just another plaything among many? “My thanks, Your Radiance. As I said, it was nothing.” He made no reply. They walked on.</p><p>Soon they were upon the servants’ quarters, situated as they were near the very center of the palace. Augusta approached the mess door and peeked in to request tea and whatever else they could put together for breakfast at this hour. A skinny girl with flyaway hair came puffing up a few moments later with a beaten silver tray bearing a teapot, cups, and small pots of honey and milk. Another girl trailed her with a tray of toasted bread and bowls of fruit. When bid, they set the trays on an empty plinth and then scuttled off, very explicitly not making eye contact with the emperor. </p><p>Augusta poured herself some tea, then swirled in milk and a dollop of honey. Solus zos Galvus took his tea black. They stood at a set of large bay windows looking out on the palace library and its small courtyard, sipping tea and nibbling at the food. </p><p>“Do you think those girls know what sort of relationship we have?” Solus zos Galvus asked. </p><p>Augusta shrugged. “They probably assume. I do not think they know… the full extent of it, though.” </p><p>“But isn’t it obvious?” He sounded cheery, but there was a mocking edge to his words. “I mean, any fool could see it.” </p><p>“See what, Your Radiance?”</p><p>Solus zos Galvus snorted, like that was the stupidest question in the world. “That you’re in love with me, of course.” </p><p>Augusta choked on her tea. </p><p>“It’s nothing to worry yourself over,” he said with a wave of the hand as she spluttered. “I would never—as schoolchildren say—<em>tattle</em> on you to the empress.” And here he favored her with a smile both cruel and bright. It was different than the other smiles he had given her, alien in its joy, but she felt she had seen it somewhere before. It seemed to trigger some new dread in her, seemed to dig into her guts and pull at something primal and horrifying. She clapped a hand over her mouth and coughed, eyes wide with shock. What was this awful feeling? Meteors flashing past against a pitch black canvas, an ilm behind her eyelids. She set her teacup down on its saucer with a rattle. </p><p>“Goodness, did something go down the wrong way?” The emperor sipped at his tea and plucked a few grapes from one of the bowls. The smile was still there, burning into her. </p><p>“I...I think so,” said Augusta. </p><p>“Well, no harm done. And don’t worry, your secret is safe with me.” Augusta started to open her mouth again, but Solus zos Galvus hushed her. “It’s no use trying to tell me otherwise. I know your heart, my dear. I’ve known you for nigh on thirty years.” </p><p>“I…” Augusta swallowed, then decided to give way to the truth. “I don’t know what to say.” </p><p>“It’s alright, really. I find it somewhat endearing. You, loving me?” He tutted to himself. “How positively like a romance novel. I’m fond of some of those stories, you know. Most of them end happily.” </p><p>Augusta had absolutely no idea what to say to <em>that,</em> and Solus zos Galvus seemed to like it that way. </p><p>“I’m simply trying to get a rise out of you,” he said. “I want to see you… open up, I suppose. That is what people who are close to each other <em>do.</em> I did not think it would be this difficult after dozens of years.” He murmured something to himself then; Augusta thought she heard the word “impossible” in there. </p><p>“I… I see.” <em>Open up? What in the seven hells did he mean?</em> “Suffice it to say I will c-continue to perform my duties with the utmost care, regardless of my feelings.” Would that appease him? Would that get him to drop the bloody topic? </p><p>“I never doubted it. In fact, I rather think such feelings would prompt you to do your job better. Isn’t that how it works?” </p><p>There was… movement in her mind, and she felt as if she could see the star shower more clearly now. With more immediacy. A wave of nausea wracked her. What was this? Some kind of waking nightmare? Had serving this man finally driven her mad? A hand flew to her forehead, just shy of her third eye. The skin was hot to the touch. </p><p>“Oh my, you look fit to faint,” said Solus zos Galvus. He said this in such a clinical way that Augusta nearly started. “I think I have shocked you more than I intended. Forgive me, but for as sly as you are in other matters, your true feelings were really very obvious. It merely amused me to let you know I was in on the secret. And honestly, isn’t it better knowing I’m on your side?” He stepped closer, teacup clasped firmly between his hands. “We can’t have a faerie tale ending, I’m afraid, but you can continue to provide your… myriad services without fear of detection.” And he reached out to stroke her cheek. Sick as it made her, she shivered at his delicate touch, pressing into it like a loyal hound, eager for more. His own expression was pleasantly neutral, almost bored. He might have been caressing a doll. </p><p>After a moment he drew his hand back to the teacup, and chuckled low and deep in his chest. </p><p>“You react like that to almost anything I do. You see? Maids and courtiers and noblemen alike have watched us interact for years, and never have I heard even a whisper of suspicion as to who or what you might really be. People on the whole are frightfully stupid, aren’t they?” He was still bloody smiling at her. Making her even sicker. </p><p>The question came to her again. <em>So what am I? A trusted advisor, or a stupid girl with an ugly scar?</em> That smile… and the star shower behind her eyes... it was all so overwhelming. Not even her third eye could keep her steady on her feet. She could feel her legs buckling beneath her, could feel the bile coming up.  </p><p>Augusta shook her head, then turned on her heel. “I-I’m sorry—the—the star shower—“</p><p>And she took off down the nearby corridor, slippers whispering against the floor. She could hear Solus zos Galvus protesting behind her, faint realization in his voice—“the <em>star</em> shower?”—but she did not look back; no, she kept her head down, kept striding forward, watching as the tiles beneath her turned from red and black to blue and white. </p><p>When she looked up a few moments later, she realized she had made it all the way to the state parade apartment, an enfilade of richly decorated suites meant for receiving noble guests and envoys. Paintings commissioned by the emperor himself hung throughout, all depicting famous moments in Garlean imperial history. Considering the empire was little over a decade old, even Augusta thought it quite the monument to arrogance. Not that she would ever give that thought voice. </p><p>She breathed slowly through her nose, gathering herself—or putting a few pieces back together, anyhow. Her heart fluttered in her chest, but she had the presence of mind to look around, and she saw she had stopped in front of a large painting that took up nearly the entire wall. Flanked by two veined marble columns, it depicted a chaotic battle scene, frozen in time. She’d seen it before, of course, but never so clearly as now. There were soldiers everywhere, bruised and bloodied, but Solus zos Galvus was the centerpiece of this particular painting, riding high on chocoback, an axe raised—</p><p>“Augusta?” came the emperor’s voice at the entrance to the enfilade. All too soon. “Did you come here to be sick?” The real Solus zos Galvus sidled up to her as if from nothing, a pleasant wraith in regal attire. How could he do that? How was he so bloody fast? </p><p>She fought down the urge to scream, swallowing all her panic and nausea as best she could. <em>If I can just talk my way out of this, I can get away for a moment—get back to the servants’ quarters, maybe—and sick up in peace.</em> Her stomach was positively roiling with his sudden reappearance. </p><p>“I’m sorry, Your Radiance. I don’t quite know what’s come over me today.” She gave a hysterical little giggle. It was true: she really didn’t. “It’s a lot to take in, you knowing my secret. I simply lost my cool for a few seconds there.” </p><p>Solus zos Galvus pursed his lips at her, almost as if suppressing laughter. He seemed to know something he would not tell. </p><p>“So you ran away from me, only to run into me again.” His eyes flicked to the painting, then back to her. “I am everywhere here. There’s no getting away from me, not in this place.” He made an irritated sound. “But I already told you: there’s nothing to fear. Am I really all that terrifying?”</p><p><em>He’s toying with me,</em> Augusta realized. Another levinbolt to rend her heart. <em>Like a coeurl with a mouse. Gods, he always has been. Always!</em> She swallowed, thought fast. “You are the emperor. To even think I had displeased you… well, you can imagine the shame I felt. The shame I feel. It would make anyone want to flee in fear.” She bowed her head. “I hope you will accept my sincerest apologies, and I further hope that we can maintain our good relations in light of all this.” </p><p>It seemed as if thunderclouds passed across the emperor’s face. “‘Sincerest apologies’... ‘good relations’... by the Eorzeans’ false bloody Twelve!” The oath made her flinch for true. “Speak like one of the Spoken! If I tell someone to drop formalities, they bloody well drop them! Except for you! You could be a godsdamned automaton for all I know! You give me programmed responses! Programmed faces! And you <em>love</em> me, somehow!” He sounded incredulous. “It makes not a lick of sense! This world… everyone in it… they aren’t automatons, but they may as well be…!” </p><p>He raised a hand. Here it was. <em>Thank the gods, if gods there be</em>. She closed her eyes, stiffened for death… but nothing came. When she opened her eyes again, he was still standing there, anger cold on his face. </p><p>“No,” he said softly. His expression grew smooth, and his hand fell to his side. “No. You are not an automaton. You <em>do</em> love me after a fashion, silly as it is. Meaningless as it is. And I do not crush every insect I see… I should not…” </p><p>He turned away, back to the painting Augusta had been contemplating when she stopped. She slumped against the wall next to the plaque, relief nearly making her collapse. Tears coursed down her face in silence. She had been tense, but she hadn't realized how tightly wound she’d been until now. Gods, that had been it…! And it would have been so easy for him…!</p><p>“Thank you, Solus,” she said in a breathy rush. “Thank you.” </p><p>“I’m ‘Solus’ now, am I?” the emperor said. He sounded curious. “'Solus.'” Solus zos Galvus only gave her the thinnest slice of peace before he began to smile again. A new terror spiked through her, turning her arms to gooseflesh. </p><p>No, he wouldn’t kill her, but… punish? Yes, he was quite capable of meting out punishment. </p><p><em>Please, no</em>, she thought, tears hot on her cheeks, <em>please, just go. Please, just leave me.</em></p><p>“You’ve had quite a harrowing morning,” said the emperor. His voice was cruel. “However, I’m not quite ready to retire just yet.” </p><p>“I’ve learned,” she gasped, knowing full well how pathetic she sounded. “Please, Your Radiance, I’ve learned. Oh hells—I’m sorry. Solus? Please. I’m sorry.” </p><p>He ignored her. “I suppose since we are here… we could discuss this painting. It is one of my favorites.” </p><p>“I’m sorry,” she sobbed. “Solus. I’m sorry.” </p><p>“Would you believe it?” He narrowed his eyes at the painting. “I barely know how to handle an axe. Quite the artistic interpretation of events.” </p><p>He was trying to make jokes! She looked down, blinked, began to stutter out something she thought he wanted to hear. She didn’t know what he was going to do, but he was going to do <em>something</em>, and—oh gods, she was so afraid! </p><p>“Stop looking away!” he snapped. He grabbed her head and forced her to gaze up to the painting, to look straight at his image. “Look at it. If you love me so well, then see me in all of my glory and accept it. <em>Understand </em>me.” </p><p>So against her will she looked. She took it all in, mouth dry, heart thumping in her temples. Solus zos Galvus was fearsome in the painting, eyes hooded and smiling, lips ripped back to reveal too-white teeth. The bloody axe raised above his head, dark and dripping, only added to the effect. The emperor did not smile like that. His smile, the axe… it was… unnatural, and not because of the art’s exaggerating lens, but… yes, she felt it signaled something hidden and true about him. Something too terrible for words. That smile… was it the same as…? The cast of his expression, the suggestion of movement and impermanence in the way he held himself, as if the youthful face in the painting could fall away at any moment and reveal—</p><p>“Do you know what this painting depicts?” asked Solus zos Galvus, releasing her, and for an instant that imitation smile was real, was <em>there</em>, on his face. Yes, it was the same smile that had sickened her when they had taken their tea, the same smile that had brought the star shower in its wake. Augusta had never been so frightened—the sudden questions buffeted her: who was he? <em>what </em>was he?—but she shook her head and willed her eyes to remain locked on his. In truth she knew what the painting depicted, but she could not speak.</p><p>“This is the conquest of Nhalmasque,” he said. “Many consider it the Garlean Empire’s first great victory. I certainly do. I remember it well.” His smile yawned wider, and like someone at the lip of a trench, lured by the prospect of a long fall, she leaned in. “I remember the glory of that day, of taking the citadel itself. But mostly, I remember the killing.” </p><p>His words clicked into place. The sickness crashed over her, crushing her in its immensity. Finally, finally. She retched. And then, she was there—she saw, she heard—meteors falling, streaming red tracks against the sky, a voice echoing like a thousand thousand bells—and she was gone in a blaze of black…</p><p>...to meet Solus zos Galvus’s axe, in the place of the poor Nhalmascan soldier in the painting. This was true—this had happened—and she was feeling it, feeling his searing impossible pain as the blade split him open across the middle. His guts—her guts—sprayed out across the browning ground, chocobos and primitive magitek thundering past, flowing around her. She—he, it didn’t matter—fell to her knees, coughing, black blood dribbling out of her mouth. She felt the slick of her own insides against her hands as she pressed against the hole in her stomach. Solus zos Galvus circled around her, smile twisting his features, axe raised above his head, young and beautiful and horrible as a voidsent freshly summoned. When he got close again, he swung the axe as hard as he could, taking her head off at the shoulders. All the while smiling, smiling. </p><p>Mayhap this was not exactly how it had been in life, in truth—mayhap Solus zos Galvus had been using a different weapon, had been mounted on a different chocobo—but the result was the same for the poor Nhalmascan: quick silver-flash sawing-through of fleshy cords and bone and gristle bright hot pain fountain of red. And it was over. </p><p><em>Death to the shards, pale mockeries of life. Blessed be great Zodiark, that my brethren might live again</em>.</p><p>She died, and the emperor laughed. Back in the present day, back in the enfilade, the emperor was still laughing. It seemed she could hear his laughter echoing through time, beyond time. It seemed she could hear it forever, wherever she went, and always would.</p><p>The emperor was not laughing when she finally came to, but he held his smile even as she trembled and hiccupped with sheer animal terror at the memory of what she had just lived. </p><p>“You saw something of my past, didn’t you?” She was leaning against the wall, gulping for air, and he had come close, close enough his third eye almost brushed hers. Close enough to whisper. “A secret for a secret, then. ‘Twas the <em>real</em> Solus zos Galvus you saw on that battlefield, my dear. Who am I? <em>What</em> am I? To mere men, Solus zos Galvus is the promise of the abyss. The waiting jaws of death. That memory is what I wish to serve to each and every man on this star. That is the great secret. All else is mere mummery. <em>All</em> of it.” </p><p>Augusta could say nothing in her current state; she simply resumed retching as he walked away. She knew he would say no more, and he did not. She could do naught but sick up anyway. Thought and feeling and peace had fled, leaving only her physical body reacting to the sickness of the memory, to the reality of Solus zos Galvus. </p><p>The halls of the palace were cold and dark before she was done, and it was a long, slow, sorrowful while before she knew warmth again. </p>
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<a name="section0011"><h2>11. yellow</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Shaking his arms out of his robes, Emet-Selch left the clamor of the imperial stateroom with hurried steps. Watery light filtering through the northern corridor’s stained glass windows made multicolored squares on the ground, and he stood in one of these to collect himself. It had been a long briefing, with far too many senators, and it was good to be done with it. As emperor, though, he had no real expectation of privacy, no real hope that he would be left to his own devices for any great length of time. He would be swarmed soon enough, if the slowly approaching thrum of voices behind him was any indication. Meetings of state were never truly “over” as far as those buffoons were concerned. </p><p>He took a few more seconds to gaze out through the stained glass windows—and the bucolic scenes they depicted—to the darkening sky beyond. When these windows had been put in decades ago, the head mason had said—oh, what had it been again?—such scenes would “do a heart good when it’s cold as the seventh hell outside,” all with jerky little nods and a painfully sycophantic smile on his face. Ridiculous. Emet-Selch could tick off on both hands everything wrong with <em>that</em> statement: for one, and most importantly besides, when <em>wasn’t </em>it cold as the seventh hell in this godsdamned country? Without looking back, he swept down the murky gray corridor, turned twice, and soon he could not hear even the echo of the legati and politicians, chirruping and bleating and puffing out their breasts over their petty power squabbles as they had been. The palace was large enough that one need not go far to find pockets of quiet; in that respect, it was a marvel of modern acoustics if naught else. He sighed, somewhat content for the nonce, and kept on. </p><p>He walked for nigh half a bell, the cascading plink of water on windowpane accompanying the click of his bootheels. It was starting to rain. Just as well; he had nowhere in particular to be, and he had certainly not planned on picnicking at the start of an Ilsabardian fall. Away from the mortals themselves, and lulled by the soft patter of rain, he went lazily over the briefing in his head: his legati had no major news for him aside from the slight stymying of imperial progress to the south and east. But magitek research was advancing at a rate heretofore unforeseen; any barriers to the empire would soon be overcome, he was sure of that. He began humming to himself, a schoolyard ditty he’d heard on a sojourn long past to the poorest sector of Garlemald. It was quick and upbeat, and he quite liked the tune; it fit his mood now that he was alone. </p><p>Magitek lamps buzzed to life as he passed them by, snapping a finger at each installation. There were less and less candles and mirrored stand lamps in the palace these days; why risk fire if magitek power was safer—and a sight more efficient besides? He lit more lamps as he passed the servants’ mess, the greenhouse, the empress’s private quarters. Cassia was nowhere to be seen amongst the rooms with doors thrown open; she was embroidering with her ladies-in-waiting, most like. He smiled at the thought of her demure and domestic. She had been slowly but surely amenable to laying down with him again, meaning he’d have less need for some of the more fiery serving maids. His silly little canary had finally been fully tamed after years of futile and often half-hearted resistance. </p><p>But while she had grown closer, others had grown distant. Most notably, Augusta had been skittish with him for ages, even since that day in the enfilade when she had manifested the Echo. So long since he had seen something like <em>that!</em> He had thought the memory he had granted her a boon—oh, a cruel and painful boon, no doubt—but he had let her see him all the same. That had been meaningful. All mortals were meant to die eventually, and if he could kill every single one of them in a stroke to revive his brethren, he would do it. Even those most faithful to him. There was no need to pity her in her frailty; he had only been telling the stark black truth. </p><p>Did he prefer it this way? Would he have been happier if these mortals had never grown frightened, had never wanted to distance themselves from him? No, he realized. No, and it was impossible anyway—they were all meant to fear him eventually. He had seen that. It was the way of things. Writ in his very history, his very blood. </p><p>The light shifted, and Emet-Selch gave a start when he looked up and found himself in front of the palace library. He must have been walking faster than he thought; the library was practically on the other side of the palace from the main stateroom. Mayhap thoughts of history had unconsciously brought him here.</p><p>The library doors certainly bore the marks of history. They loomed large, huge oaken things carved with the triplicate Garlean chain at the top and bottom. The lacquer on the chains was still as bright as the day it had been applied, likely due to routine upkeep on the most trafficked rooms in the palace. The doors seemed to call out to him. </p><p>He smirked. Why not? He had not visited the library for a good while, and mayhap he could actually sit down with a tome and read for leisure. It had been some time since he had done that, and it would be harder for the politicians to find him there, if any of them still had a mind to pester him following the briefing. Firmly decided, Emet-Selch pulled open the doors and stepped inside. </p><p>It was much darker in the library than in the open corridors of the palace proper, and he resisted the urge to blink at the immediate change in lighting. Special magitek bulbs, shuttered behind glass and set low, were placed at calculated intervals throughout the stacks; no open flames were allowed, as any tome catching fire was like to spell doom for the whole collection—if not the entire palace itself. The imperial library was vast, byzantine in its heavy mazelike sensibilities, its curling corners and crossways. It had been built upon the Galvus family’s old archives, gaining two more floors over the years, with rolling ladders reaching up to tomes twenty or more fulms off the ground. It looked more a library proper now than an archives of genealogical material, though of course only the Galvus family could use it at will. Imperial scholars and engineers often waited months to be allowed access, and even then they were dogged by two or three palace guards as they perused the shelves for likely research material. Emet-Selch had procured some of the rarest tomes himself, scouring captured Ilsabardian mansions during his conquest of the continent. Small chance he would suffer fractured mortals to curate knowledge if he could help it. </p><p>An Auri attendant stood ready behind a neat mahogany desk to greet him. Volesus was officially the head of the library—as he had long dreamed—but he was not expected to serve as a librarian in truth. Or at least, Emet-Selch would not suffer the boy to wait upon patrons like a palace servant. The attendant snapped to attention, bowed deeply to the emperor, then swept an arm out to bid him enter. Emet-Selch made the barest acknowledgement to the man, heading immediately for the history shelves. </p><p>It was beginning to storm for true outside. Raindrops drummed the windows looking out on one of the palace courtyards, lending the library a pleasant, contained feeling. Comforting it was to be deep in the stacks when foul weather shook the capital—which was rather often. Through one large window Emet-Selch could see a gaggle of the fool politicians standing about near an archway, chattering and opening umbrellas to the deluge. Maybe they would decide today was the day to finally take refuge in the warmth and quiet of the library. The dreadful thought quickened his steps from the window and the possibility of being seen. </p><p>In this way Emet-Selch soon found himself amidst the library’s collection of Allagan histories. He was not looking for anything in particular, but almost immediately his eye was drawn to a tome hanging nigh off the shelf, its binding tattered and rotten. He reached for it, curious, and when he drew it out, he was surprised to find he recognized it. If he remembered correctly… yes. This was the same tome Volesus had been reading that day… that day in the garden when… </p><p>The embossed title glowed softly under the magitek bulbs, familiar as an old friend: <em>A History of the Allagan Empire and its Inventions Great and Small.</em></p><p>He felt a twinge of something like sadness. What were the odds? He sat down to flip through the tome, but the dark grasping feeling was too strong, and he found he could not linger on any one page without the ache of tears building behind his eyes.</p><p>What was wrong with him? He’d grown so emotional over the years. And he was a mite tired besides. Bloody briefing. Bloody politicians and legati and all the rest. He moved to put the tome away, vexed with himself, but found he could not do it. <em>Mayhap I will show this to Volesus later,</em> he thought somewhat stupidly. But he did not change his mind. He tucked the tome under his arm and bustled on, thinking to peruse the poetry section next. </p><p>**</p><p>A bell or two later, after crawling through more than five different genres and climbing no small number of ladders, Emet-Selch passed through a small makeshift corridor of bookshelves. It was here that he found an untidy table, conspicuously out of place beside the other immaculately kept furniture.</p><p>He had never seen this table before, shoved awkwardly sideways between bookshelves as it was, but considering the size of the library, there was no telling when it had been set up; it could have been days or years ago for all he knew. Its untidiness intrigued him, and he drew closer. On the table sat a fat leather tome, ancient by the look of it, and opened to a spread of glyphs accompanied by formulae in a cramped scrawl. Next to the tome a long section of parchment was unrolled, held down by a square lead weight; nearly half of it was filled with notes in a messy looping hand. A brass inkwell with feather quill neatly stowed in its notch sat astride the parchment. Emet-Selch squinted—that inkwell was embossed with a familiar sigil, a wolf silhouetted by the moon. That was Titus’s personal sigil; every member of the royal family had one. </p><p>Emet-Selch was so surprised that he set the Allagan tome down and stared. Titus, studying? And in secret, by the looks of it. He had stumbled upon this little collection of research material entirely by accident; it would otherwise be nigh impossible to find without knowing exactly where to look. What in the world had the boy been taking notes on? Overcome by a rare burst of curiosity, he leaned over the table, marked Titus’s place in the tome with a careful finger, then flipped it back so he could read its title. </p><p>He froze. It read: <em>Dreams of the Ancients.</em></p><p>Ancients. Bloody… Ancients. He blinked, scarce able to believe it. He flipped back to the page he had marked with his finger. Now that he examined them more closely, these glyphs were very similar to some of the arcane geometries woven by Amaurotines in ages past. They were much cruder than the patterns Emet-Selch remembered, but the resemblance was strong enough to give him pause. </p><p>When in the seven hells had this tome gotten into the collection? He’d certainly have remembered if a tome about the ancient world had passed through his hands; indeed, he likely would not have allowed such a work into the library at all, as precious and rare as aught like that would be. And yet here was one such work. For so long he had assumed that no mortal would ever remember anything of substance about the original unsundered world—but this one had, it seemed. He flipped to the first few pages of the tome again, seeking out the author’s name. One Seseri Seri, Lalafellin by the sound of it, had penned the tome some long ages past, near the end of the Fifth Astral Era. </p><p>Emet-Selch let the tome fall back open to the page Titus had left it on. What did this mean? Titus knew something of the ancients. To find this tome, he must have been searching the library for months, if not years. He was all of thirteen years old, and up to this point, had displayed virtually no aptitude for or interest in the academic. Very strange. </p><p>And so what did this mean <em>to him? </em>Titus was not Volesus. That had been clear from the day he was born. Volesus was like unto the sun, bright and warm, while Titus was a stormcloud, always threatening unrelenting downpour. He was much like Emet-Selch in that regard, and it pleased him not. Such a glum child. In his mind, a mortal youth should be full of vim and vigor, as Volesus had been—but no, his youngest had traded boyish good humor for the wary gaze of a raven waiting to peck out a corpse’s eyes. Emet-Selch saw how he treated servants and peasants he happened to pass in the street, heard how he spoke of what he would do as legatus, how he would put down uprisings with an iron fist. A boy of ten and three, and already cruel and brooding as an autocrat from the stories. Emet-Selch suspected he had grown cold in the shadow of his brother and father, but what of it? Why should that be Emet-Selch’s business? The boy wanted for nothing. If he became a tyrant, well, that was simply the way of things, wasn’t it? The seed of evil lodged itself in the breasts of all mortals, and that seed had simply quickened faster in the dark fertile soil of Titus’s soul. He would be a legatus one day, like as not, if not a finely lettered one. And the world would suffer for it. As was its due. </p><p>This studying surprised him, though. He had not cast his web of dream aether upon Titus as he had Volesus; as far as he knew, dreams of the ancient world should have been beyond the boy. Then how? How could he have known of its existence? </p><p>The answer came almost immediately. Titus knew the same way Seseri Seri knew. Happenstance. Serendipity. Reality itself had cracked under Hydaelyn’s final strike, and for eons truth’s lifeblood had been leaking, drop by drop, into the minds of sundered mortals. Some had simply received more of that energizing trickle than others. Some—very few, to be sure, but some—had received enough to write about it. He tapped the tome absently. He was not sure whether to be gladdened or dismayed at this discovery. He had grown so accustomed to mortals knowing next to nothing, and in turn he had been so happy when Volesus had remembered more than he ever could have surmised, enough to manipulate aether in a pureblooded Garlean’s body. It felt <em>right </em>to share this greatest of secrets with his eldest son. He was not sure he had it in him to share with another mortal. </p><p>He would leave Titus to his studies for now. It would be interesting to see how this knowledge manifested in the boy. Would he be able to manipulate aether eventually, or would he display some other heretofore unseen talent? Time would tell, and he could wait. He drummed his fingers on the open pages and their geometries once, twice, then walked deeper into the stacks. </p><p>**</p><p>Emet-Selch wound slowly through the shelves, selecting tomes at random, reading passages from favorites and leafing slowly through works he himself had written ages past. It was always fascinating to find out whom amongst the conquered held tomes the Allagan technologist known as Amon had penned. Would they have made good comrades? Would they have been more intelligent, more perceptive than the average mortal? Well, ‘twas a moot point at any rate, because they were very often dead by the time Emet-Selch plundered their libraries. He might not have been able to relate to them, but their tomes had enriched his own collection, and for that he was thankful. </p><p>Eventually he neared one of the communal reading areas. There were four such spread throughout the library, all for the personal use of the emperor and his family. Ensconced between gilded bookshelves and fronted by an ornamental fireplace—magitek bulbs in the back simulating firelight—this particular nook was one of the most inviting. Here Emet-Selch found his son Volesus in a plush reading chair, feet crossed, a mug of coffee steaming before him on the lacquered reading table. He was reading aloud from a small tome in one hand, a collection of faerie tales by the look of it. In his lap sat his own son Varis, a quiet boy of seven, and a nigh exact copy of his father. He was listening intently. </p><p>Emet-Selch paused, strangely hesitant. It had been so long since he and Volesus had spoken at length, just the two of them. It felt an eternity since that day in the garden, when the tree had burned and Volesus had looked to him for aid. There had been such promise that day. Such promise for the future of mortals. Funny, though, how all that promise seemed to have dried up so quickly. It was akin to a much-loved memory now, something you knew you would never experience again. </p><p>He sighed, clutched the tome closer, and decided to approach. Volesus looked up and watched as Emet-Selch sat stiffly in the leather chair next to his. One of the magitek bulbs in the fireplace buzzed and flickered, making Volesus’s eyes seem to leap out of his patient face. He snapped shut the tome he had been reading and rested it on his knee, one finger marking his place. </p><p>“Greetings, Your Radiance. Do you need something?” the boy asked. Not a boy any longer, no—a man grown, with a lad of his own to take care of. Volesus patted Varis on the head as he peered over his glasses, his features soft in the false firelight’s golden gleam. He wore a smart waistcoat in the modern style, expertly tailored but somehow modest for all that, his undershirt not quite matching the rest of the ensemble, his shoes unshined. Volesus had never been showy, but he did look mature. Even with the evidence staring him in the face, Emet-Selch could not but think of the man before him as a boy. His boy. His son. </p><p><em>What happened to that boy? </em>Emet-Selch wondered, and for the briefest span he was not sure who he meant—Volesus, or himself. Hades had been a great, open soul, a lover of learning, a scholar. He had walked in the gardens and given lectures in the amphitheater. He had devoured heavy tomes on the hill overlooking Amaurot’s great plaza. He had smiled at children playing with their Concepts, and they had smiled back. Children seemed to like him, as he recalled. </p><p>Volesus rarely smiled at him now. He was a kind man, and Emet-Selch often saw him laughing, but that happiness was never for him. Not anymore. He shared it with Varis, and Cassia, and even Titus at times. But whatever it was that had made the children laugh in old Amaurot, whatever it was that lit up their faces and brightened their eyes—that had gone from Emet-Selch long ago. The boy Hades was dead—he’d seen the grave, buried him with his own two hands!—and still he refused to accept it. </p><p>“I need nothing from you,” said Emet-Selch with a cough. “I was merely taking my constitutional through the palace and thought I would spend some leisure time in the library.” </p><p>“A good enough reason as any to come here.” </p><p>“I thought so. How fares Claudia? And Varis?” He almost never addressed Varis directly. His presence seemed to put the boy on edge. </p><p>“Claudia is fine. She does scribe work for the senators, and likely knows better than most of them how the senate works. I think she may even be preparing to fill one of their vacancies soon. And Varis?” Volesus’s voice grew gentle as he addressed the boy in his lap. “Would you like to tell Grandfather how you’re doing?” </p><p>Varis blinked at Emet-Selch as if he’d seen a ghost. Then he shook his head and buried his face in Volesus’s chest, whimpering softly. </p><p>“I’m alright was just reading with Father” was the heavily muffled reply Emet-Selch barely managed to catch. </p><p>Volesus chuckled and gave the boy’s shoulder a quick squeeze. “Still as shy as ever. I’ll need to work on that.” </p><p>“Hmph.” Emet-Selch had never found Varis’s shyness endearing. “I trust you aren’t letting Claudia coddle him overmuch? I often think Cassia spent too much time with you and Titus as children. It certainly made <em>you</em> soft, if not Titus.” </p><p>“I think we turned out… alright given the circumstances, Your Radiance.” </p><p>Emet-Selch gave a long-suffering sigh. The boy was as bad as Augusta, and his pause was duly noted. </p><p>“You need not invoke my title every few seconds.”</p><p>“Fine, Father,” said Volesus woodenly. “As you prefer.” </p><p>Ignoring his son’s tone, Emet-Selch set the volume he was holding on the table. “At any rate, have a look at what I happened to come across.” </p><p>Volesus leaned forward, and gave a small, sad smile when he saw the tome’s cover. “What fortune. This was one of my favorite works as a child.” </p><p>The tome seemed to have warmed Volesus’s will to converse, and Emet-Selch found himself smiling for true. “It was sticking out in the section on Allagan history. It looks to me to be well-used.” </p><p>“I often go back to it,” said Volesus. “Do you know, it contains quite the chapter on Allagan healing technologies that I find applies quite well to… ah, other forms of healing, shall we say. Seeing as I cannot officially join the army as a chirurgeon, I study what I can here.” </p><p>Emet-Selch sighed. “You know why I cannot allow you to practice in the open.” At great pains, and after many months of arguing, Emet-Selch had finally allowed Volesus to accompany Garlean medical corps to various nearby provinces, under the condition that he always be in the company of O-Muro-Sen. The crown prince was known to be a kind man, concerned for the well-being of common soldiers. If the Padjali medicus were to use his healing magicks on the sick and infirm who were brought to him, well, who would ever suspect that Volesus was also drawing upon his own aether to assist in that endeavor? </p><p>“I know.” Volesus gave a weak shrug. “‘Tis all very well and good to be pulled along on Master O-Muro-Sen’s coattails, but I wish I could do more.” His lips twitched as if he wanted to say something else, but abruptly chose not to. </p><p>“Still, you do get to practice,” Emet-Selch pointed out. His smile turned wry.  “I hardly ever get the chance to exercise those muscles, as it were. ‘Tis not as if you have no outlet at all.” </p><p>“Yes. The work I do is certainly… invigorating.” Volesus spoke somewhat haltingly now, slower. “I see parts of the empire I never would have otherwise, parts of the country I doubt even <em>you </em>have ever been to, Father. And being able to help… even such as it is… it warms my heart.</p><p>“But the empire is vast, and our subjugation methods are… well. Not to sound naive, but seeing our provinces with mine own eyes—seeing the people who live there, <em>how </em>they live—has admittedly changed my perspective.” </p><p>And here Volesus leaned forward, one hand on Varis’s shoulder. “Father, have you ever thought—I mean, have you ever even considered—that what the empire is doing is wrong?”</p><p>Emet-Selch blinked. Now <em>there </em>was a question, and make no mistake! “The Garlean Empire is the greatest bulwark against the primal threat that exists on this star.” He was surprised how fluid the lie sounded on his lips, like an ancient stream rushing clear and keen through a glen. He went on, the strength of the lie lending weight to his words. </p><p>“You know what happened in Othard. You know what we saw. What <em>I </em>saw. A vast expanse of land drained from constant summonings, such that not even the meanest plant could grow in its soil. A ragtag tribe—last of the groups indigenous to the Burn, I suspect—calling forth a great chained monster that nigh decimated our troops. I myself very nearly died.” He smothered a shiver threatening to bubble its way up his spine. That last was no lie, and hardly a memory he enjoyed pulling up no matter the occasion. “What would you have us do instead? Leave these savages be? We have the manpower and technological prowess to go forth and conquer. Hence our nation’s words: <em>Nos sumus manus, nos sumus deus.</em> We are the hand <em>and</em> the god, and we will damn well rule. That vigor—that divine bloody <em>right</em>— is the oil that greases the cogs of the imperial machine.” </p><p>“Well—it is a cruel machine, Father, whatever it is working to defend against. We rule our peoples with an iron first. The only souls who benefit are those already wealthy in land and resources. I fail to see how we have made life better for the unlucky and downtrodden. We have been the source of such suffering as pains me to even imagine.” </p><p>Emet-Selch bit back a cruel smile. <em>And that is all very much why I assembled this machine, dear boy.</em> Oh yes, he had lies aplenty, and they spilled forth so, so easily. </p><p>“Statemaking is by its very nature red in tooth and claw, especially so when it is necessary to safeguard the future of mankind. We do not press onward and claim more land for the sake of saving the wretches, the impoverished, the already defeated. You’ve a kind heart, I know that well, but in this you sound especially naive.” He reached out to help himself to the Coerthan press, pouring coffee into one of the unused mugs on the table. “We cannot save the world without carving out its great sickness, and no matter how a chirurgeon cuts into a body, they will bloody their hands. Ignoring the primal threat would be far crueler than what we do now—what you call ‘subjugation.’ And forgive me if I do not trust the primitive nations to see to that threat themselves.” He took a sip of coffee, daring the soft-hearted lad to respond. </p><p>Volesus, for his part, took a moment to consider those words, turning his own mug around in his hands. “I… I understand the Garlean Empire has the <em>means </em>to protect the star. But possessing the means does not in turn dictate that we employ them in the most aggressive manner possible. Must we expand so far? Must we punish dissension so severely? Surely there is some other way. We could, for example, broker treaties with the beast tribes.” He leaned ever more forward, energized by the idea. It seemed he had been thinking on this for some time. “My studies suggest that primal summonings are most common during times of economic strife and political upheaval. We could extend humanitarian aid to foreign nations instead of rushing to conquer them and mold them to our own ideals. Magitek could be used to heal, to improve people’s lives, not to destroy and—“ </p><p>“We already use magitek in such ways, Volesus. You choose not to see. The academy has been studying practical applications of magitek for many years. Heating units, lighting, medicines, ever more efficient engines to power labor machina. Things of that sort.” </p><p>“Yes, those many applications <em>exist, </em>Father. But in very large part we employ magitek to destroy and kill. Say ‘magitek’ abroad and you’d be hard-pressed to find anyone who doesn’t think of war machines. Of hollowed-out villages and dead children.” Varis gave a yawn, shifting in his father’s lap, and Volesus patted his head fondly. “Surely we... could move away from destruction with enough time and discipline.” </p><p>Emet-Selch smiled. Oh, but the lad was clever! Let him spread those ideas about the capital and they were bound to see an uptick in resistance—mayhap outright rebellion in some of the more unstable provinces. He might even get some of the senators on his side with that talk. Dangerous ideas indeed. </p><p><em>I simply mustn’t let him attain any kind of political visibility, </em>Emet-Selch thought. <em>I mustn’t let the empire’s officials know that someone so close to me is such a bleeding heart.</em></p><p>Much as part of him admired Volesus’s kindness, the empire could never trend toward pacifism. True, the Ardor might come before Volesus became emperor, but it might not. In the case that his son did one day rule, Emet-Selch would have plenty of time to disabuse him of these dove-minded flights of fancy. To bring about Zodiark’s long-awaited resurrection, the Garlean Empire had to remain a machine fueled by blood and pain and bodies. That was non-negotiable.  </p><p>“I cannot and will not entertain your idea,” said Emet-Selch curtly. </p><p>“What?”</p><p>“I will not allow it. We cannot simply back down now that we are on track to control the majority of this star. Relaxing our policies would be akin to giving our enemies a free chance to retaliate, and what then? We would have wars on multiple fronts, granting the beast tribes even greater opportunity to summon their ghastly eikons and bleed the land dry. The world as we know it would come to an end.” </p><p>Volesus was silent at that. He wore a thoughtful frown. </p><p>“And anyway, why protest now?” Emet-Selch gestured with the mug, drawing a wide, lazy arc through the air. “Every single comfort you enjoy is provided by the Garlean Empire. Would you really be willing to give it all up for some vague notion of world peace?” </p><p>“If it meant an onze less of blood shed, I would gladly live a modest life. Hells, I might gladly live as a beggar. I know you don’t believe me, but… there it is. And as for why I speak up now…” Volesus looked helplessly at him, then at Varis.</p><p>There was the slightest tugging in Emet-Selch’s chest at those words. Might he see in Varis what Emet-Selch had seen in Volesus as a boy? How positively sentimental. </p><p>“I am a father now,” said Volesus quietly, his eyes resting on Varis’s golden head. “I fret over the future more than I once did. One day, Varis will take the field in the name of the empire. I think of him spattered in blood; I think of him killing enemies. It saddens me more than I can say.” </p><p>“The sons of the emperor are bound to the yoke of rule, and yes, that means blood. The empire requires it. That is how it must be.” </p><p>“It… no, it doesn’t <em>have</em> to be that way… you speak in such absolutes...” </p><p>“One cannot turn back the clock, Volesus. Empire is empire. It cannot work through peace. It must needs be a monster to function.”</p><p>“Then… then we change the method of governance altogether. We… well, if we don’t outright dissolve the empire on the spot, we set up a process that grants our provinces full autonomy after a certain amount of time passes. Then we work to bolster the senate again, while reducing the influence of the emperor.” </p><p>“Choose your next words with care,” said Emet-Selch bluntly. “This is treasonous talk.” </p><p>“So be it, then.” Volesus looked more serious now than ever. “The more I see, the more certain I am that all we are doing is ensuring that we end as Allag did, or worse. Can’t you understand? Empire is a waste, and it produces naught but blood and tears and broken peoples.” He shook his head. “I saw it in you once, Father. A love of learning. A passion for history. In the gardens all those long years ago, when the tree caught fire, you taught me something I would never forget. You taught me that… that healing was a good thing. Coming from you, I… I thought… that was a sign. How many times did I steal away to my rooms afterward thinking that I could change you? That I could make you see the empire as the sick, corrupting snake that it is?” His voice broke. “Even after all this, even after the death and suffering and turmoil you have wrought, I—I still want to see good in you!” </p><p>Emet-Selch swallowed. His hands felt dead and cold around the mug. “I—“ </p><p>“Gods, Father!” Volesus was nearly crying now, his arms looped about Varis’s shoulders in a protective embrace. “Look at this library you’ve amassed, even as you built armies. Imagine if you bent your thoughts to preserving knowledge instead of expanding the reach of Garlemald. Think how vast this library could become then. Think… think how enriched the world itself could become.” </p><p>That put a lump in Emet-Selch’s throat he could not quite dislodge, and for one wild moment he was almost swayed by it. For one wild moment he went back—back and back, to when he had arranged vitrines of seedkin taxidermy with Halmarut, argued metaphysical theory with Elidibus, written out complex geometries with Lahabrea. Stolen a kiss from Azem. Those were days of real wonder! Real learning! He was seeing through Hades’s eyes again, and then!—he nearly gasped—right then! He had Hades’s optimism; Volesus had opened the door. He could do it! He could make of this star a paradise! He could bring Amaurot back from the dead, see the ancient world bloom anew! It wasn’t impossible, was it? </p><p>But Hades’s optimism was a scant, flickering thing—a sun at the tail end of its lifespan, guttering out in the bruised black hollow of the universe. By his tempering, or his innate stubbornness, or by some other dark feeling he had no name for, Emet-Selch turned on Volesus with the full wrath of an ancient at the orator’s podium. </p><p>Hades was dead. Dead! How dare Volesus dig up his desiccated corpse! </p><p>“A milksop’s arguments. Whatever you saw in me that day is long dead, boy. There is naught to be done for it. The primal threat must be snuffed out: therefore, the empire must exist. ‘Tis as simple as that. We cannot stop. I. Cannot. Stop. Don’t you see? Don’t you understand?” </p><p>Varis had begun to sniffle in Volesus’s lap, and Volesus bounced him on his knee, endeavoring to soothe the child. Emet-Selch saw that tears were running freely down his cheeks now. He swiped them away with one hand, ruffling Varis’s golden curls with the other. </p><p>“I was a fool to even voice my thoughts. I knew it. If that is truly how you feel, then I have nothing else to say on the matter.” </p><p>Emet-Selch set the mug down on the table, crossing his legs and folding his arms. “Mayhap you are not fit to be emperor, then.” </p><p>Volesus met Emet-Selch’s gaze with cool intensity. “Mayhap not.” They sat looking at each other for a long moment, and the distance between them grew longer in silence. It saddened Emet-Selch, and the spirit of Hades bubbled up to prod at him, just the tiniest bit.</p><p>
  <em>How did it come to this, little one? Oh, how did it come to this?</em>
</p><p>There was movement behind them. Emet-Selch turned, and saw Titus of all people emerge from behind a bookcase, crossbow slung across his back. There was no telling how long he had been there, but he was almost glad for the interruption.</p><p>Titus, for his part, seemed not to care one whit that he had stumbled upon a rather heated argument. He was wearing a richly embellished tunic and a hat with an enormous feather pinned rakishly crosswise. He doffed his hat with slick ease as he bowed to Emet-Selch, which earned him a cocked eyebrow. The boy had been on the overly reverent side of polite to him lately, and he could not say he trusted it—on top of the secret studying, he was not sure what to think. He looked rather ridiculous, all told. The cloak draped over his shoulders was purple and ermine-trimmed, and held in place by a brooch bearing his personal sigil. It was also a bit too big for a lad of ten and three. Slapping the hat back down on his head, he went sauntering to the table, big cloak flaring like a butterfly’s wings, and collapsed into the chair across from Volesus. He kicked his legs over the chair arm, his crakows so long that they tickled the brick hearth. He and Volesus could not have been more different, in dress or aught else. But both this attire and behavior were normal for Titus; he loved flaunting his status even when he did not plan to leave the palace. It seemed almost as if he had been born to marinate in the pomp and idle luxuries of the rich. </p><p>Titus took some time to make himself comfortable before fixing his raven’s eyes on his brother. “Father’s right, you know,” he sneered. “You’re weak, Volesus. I fear what might become of the empire when you take the throne.”</p><p>“It hardly befits a prince to eavesdrop, Titus,” said Emet-Selch darkly. </p><p>Titus shrugged, doing his best to puff out his chest and show off the silver brooch as he did so. “Surely you can’t object to me playing at spy. ‘Tis good training for the future; I’ll catch all our enemies before Frumentarium does, even the ones that try to sneak into the palace. And I <em>am </em>right about Volesus. You agree with me, Father.” </p><p>Volesus shook his head. “Spare me your childish prattle, Titus. I’m in no mood to hear it today.” </p><p>“But I <em>am</em> right! Father, tell him I’m right!” Titus was nigh sniveling now, dragging his words out with a high whine. </p><p>“Gods—don’t you have some peasant women to shoot at with that crossbow of yours?” There was a note of contempt in Volesus’s voice that Emet-Selch had never heard before. Titus started in his seat, whine cutting off sharp, as if his brother had gleaned something about him he’d meant to keep secret. Volesus, too, looked as if he had said too much. So the rumors Emet-Selch had been hearing about Titus’s sadistic clandestine hobby were true—but what did Volesus have to do with it? </p><p>Titus laughed, harsh and crowing. It seemed he was aiming to deflect. “Ha ha ha! You talk as if Father cares about some lowborn rats!” </p><p>Emet-Selch tutted. “Ah, ah, Titus. If you are disturbing the peace—harming civilians when there is no need—then we do have a problem.” Titus’s smile faded, and Volesus blanched. “You simply can’t do such things. And Volesus? I’m surprised you didn’t bring this to me sooner.”</p><p>“I… well…” Volesus shrugged, shifting in his seat. “I couldn’t, I suppose. If I did, you would have stopped me… from...” </p><p>Titus looked puzzled, but Emet-Selch was putting two and two together: Volesus was healing the poor wretches Titus shot at with the crossbow Nigellus had so neglectfully let him lug about the palace. By the bloody black abyss. It was not that he cared for those wretches as such, but if Volesus weren’t careful, his secret could be uncovered fast as a levin flash. Something quite like fear crept up his throat. </p><p>“See, Volesus is spying on me too,” Titus said with a magnificent pout. He began fiddling with the crannequin on the offending crossbow, cranking and loosening it at turns. “And… and who cares about some old women anyroad? They shouldn’t get so close to the palace walls, I say.” </p><p>“Shut your mouth,” snapped Emet-Selch. “You speak like a street urchin.” The thought that Titus might have an inkling of what Volesus was doing did nothing for his anger, or his fear. </p><p>“I—I’m no street ur—“</p><p>“And <em>enough </em>with your fiddling, by all the false gods! You are to cease this childish nonsense immediately. If you so much as aim that crossbow at a peasant again, you’ll be <em>begging</em> for a strapping from Nigellus.” </p><p>Tears glimmered fresh in Titus’s eyes, and his hands stilled on the crossbow. “You… you always favor Volesus! Always!” He pointed accusingly at his brother, sitting quietly with Varis and watching the false firelight flicker in the wall. He said nothing. “Y-you want a soft-hearted c-craven to be emperor? It’s—it’s—it’s”—and here sobs wracked his body—“it’s n-not fair! After all my training! After all the s-studying I’ve been doing!”</p><p>“Get hold of yourself!” yelled Emet-Selch, temper flaring high and hot. “Seven bloody hells! I will not have us erupting into civil war right here!” He was nigh ilms from drubbing the boy, but Volesus’s soft voice cut in before he could say or do aught else. </p><p>“I will not be emperor.” </p><p>Emet-Selch started in spite of himself. Those words had doused his anger like a bucketful of water, leaving him close to gaping. “What’s that, lad?”</p><p>“I don’t rightly know. I have a feeling, is all. Titus needn’t worry. I won’t be emperor.” </p><p>He said this so quietly and with such conviction that even Titus could not come up with an immediate retort. </p><p>“Hmph,” said the younger boy at length. “What is that supposed to m-mean?”</p><p>“I… I am not sure. I find it difficult to explain. ‘Tis like seeing the clouds turn gray, and knowing it will rain. With this I have a similar feeling of certainty, but I am the only one who can see the sky.” </p><p>“If you’re going to be so e-enigmatic, what’s the point of even talking about this anymore?” Titus swiped an arm across his nose, careless of the fine fabric of his sleeve. “You’re always so s-self satisfied. Whether you become emperor or not, you think being good is all that counts. I don’t know w-why I waste time trying to understand your lofty metaphors.” </p><p>Volesus smiled sadly. “If only I could get you to see.” He looked from Titus to Emet-Selch, and his smile grew sadder. “If only I could get you both to see.”</p><p>A chill seemed to run through the room then, cooling the high tempers all around. Varis had somehow managed to fall asleep amidst the din, and was snoring softly. They all four sat quietly for several moments, listening to the pop and buzz of the magitek lighting in the fireplace. </p><p>Finally Titus, having recovered from his bout of plaintive sobbing, leapt from his seat and set his hat at a more rakish angle as he righted himself. “Well. I am away, Father. I’ve no more words to bandy with my pacifist brother, and there was something I wished to do here before retiring. But your command is duly noted.” He made a great show of slinging the crossbow over his shoulder, patting it so it rattled against his back: <em>see, I won’t be shooting </em>this<em> over the parapets anymore, </em>the action seemed to say. </p><p>“Very well. See that you don’t forget it.” </p><p>“By your leave.” There was a reverent light in his eyes as he addressed Emet-Selch, a light that turned to hungry fervor as he bowed. He stalked away, bells tinkling on his shoes, cape rustling behind him. </p><p>Emet-Selch watched him go, frowning all the while. Yes, there was something bizarre in that one. Luckily, the boy did not seem to have any inkling of Volesus’s magical ability. He rose as soon as Titus disappeared into the stacks. </p><p>“Pray leave Titus to his own devices,” he murmured to Volesus. “It seems you have dodged quite the crossbow bolt for a long span of time, but we cannot risk having your secret revealed in such a way. Keep your healing to the back lines of the army, in the company of O-Muro-Sen, and no one will be any the wiser. Do you hear me?” There was no point in bringing his anger to bear on Volesus now, and besides, he was not sure he had the heart for it. </p><p><em>To heal is a good thing.</em> Hades’s voice shuddered out from its gaol of ice. </p><p>Volesus nodded. “Yes, I understand, Father.” His words had a ringing, final weight to them.</p><p>“As for the future of the empire… we will speak of it later.” Volesus only nodded again and hugged Varis close as Emet-Selch walked away. He had the distinct impression they would do no such thing, but he needed to say it anyway. </p><p>Emet-Selch did not ask his eldest to further explain his portentous words. He was not sure he wanted to hear it. Volesus would be emperor one day, of course he would. He could correct the boy’s pacifism in time, and in the end he would be a fine ruler, a fine leader of men, for all that he was idealistic and soft-hearted and foolish. </p><p>Just as Hades had been. </p><p>Emet-Selch walked purposefully for the doors, wishing for memory to fade with each step, wishing to lose himself to the lulling pulse of rain against the palace walls. His temper might have cooled, his eyes might have cleared, but that fear never left his throat. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>If you enjoyed this and feel so inclined, please join this lovely book club and chat about villains with me! https://discord.gg/FB8hqkD</p><p>I’ve also got a writing discord focusing on serious/darker FFXIV fic, if that strikes your fancy. https://discord.gg/DgMUqQUP</p></blockquote></div></div>
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